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WITH OTHER EYES 


BOOKS BY NORMA LORIMER 

There Was a King in Egypt 
The God’s Carnival 
On Desert Altars 
A Wlle Out of Egypt 
With Other Eyes 



WITH OTHER EYES 


BY 

NORMA LORIMER ^ 

II 

AUTHOR OF “ A WIFE OUT OF EGYPT,” “ THERE WAS A KING IN EGYPT,” ETC. 



New York 
BRENTANO’S 
Publishers 




COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY 
BRENT ANO’S 


All rights reserved 



Made in U. S. A. 


MAY 13 1920 


£ 


© Cl. A 5 8 5 9 9 9 




a*.© V* 




CONTENTS 


PAGE 

PART I 

THE ISLE OF AVALON 1 

PART II 

LIFE IN A FOREST CLEARING AND AT TREGARON 

MANOR 81 

PART III 

TWO YEARS LATER 205 





WITH OTHER EYES 

PART I 

THE ISLE OF AVALON 
CHAPTER I 

Spring was in the year, and the Island valley of Avalon lay 
in all its greenness and brightness, under the stillness of the 
Sabbath evening. 

A sense of hush, which suggested Nature’s hour of Bene- 
diction, rested on the flowery meadows, and on the placid 
streams, and on the soft red roofs of the mediaeval city. 

To town-tired eyes the valley seemed to have been blessed, 
to be resting under the grace of the Laying-on of Hands. 

A white road, made by Roman legionaries, along which 
devout pilgrims for many centuries had so unquestioningly 
trod, lay pointing the way to forgotten shrines and miraculous 
waters, the ancient healing wells of Avalon. 

Above this haunt of peace, graced with the beauty of holi- 
ness and the dignity of Time, was a high clear sky, of the 
deepest blue. Its blueness was intensified by masses of quickly- 
moving clouds, floating mountain-tops, which seemed to have 
severed themselves from Italy’s snowy Alps, and drifted to this 
quiet Island valley. 

They gave the heavens an architectural majesty, and brought 
to man’s mind the genius of Michelangelo. 

This resemblance of the majestic clouds to Italy’s eternal 
snows was suggested by the spiritual atmosphere which quickens 
the ancient sanctuary of Avalon, in no less a degree than the 
spirits of St. Francis and St. Clare quicken and sanctify the 
Umbrian hillsides round the sacred city of Assisi. 

Avalon has little connection with the outer world; like Assisi, 

7 


8 


WITH OTHER EYES 


it prefers to remain a spiritual background rather than a pro- 
gressive centre, placid rather than prosperous. The stranger 
in search of rest will not find its Arcadian stillness disturbed 
by the siren whistles of modern traffic, while — out of reverence, 
it may be, to the memory of St. Joseph of Arimathaea, at whose 
shrine, in the Middle Ages, almost as many pilgrims gathered 
annually as at the famous shrine of St. Thomas a Becket at 
Canterbury — no trains are permitted to leave or arrive at 
Glastonbury on a Sunday. In this, the oldest ecclesiastical 
foundation in England, the Seventh Day is still the Lord’s Jjfiy. 
Here men set it apart for Him; here girls dress themselves for 
it; here housewives clean their homes for it, and farmers house 
their beasts for it. 

The seventh-day calm in the valley is the repose of its 
week-days intensified and deepened by the spirit of prayer in 
the minds of men. You can feel Sunday in the air; the very 
actions of the beasts in the meadows suggest it; the swinging 
of the cow’s tail is not the quick tail-switching of a week-day 
— far from it; it is the gentle movement of a day of rest. The 
birds, as well as the beasts — all are conscious of its sanctity, 
from the deep slow cawing of the rooks, homing their familiar 
way to settlements in ancient trees, to the throat-notes of the 
thrush, who, on the Lord’s Day, restrains the passion of his 
song. 

The gay wild flowers, which a wet spring had so lavishly 
bestowed upon the meadows and untrimmed hedges, lit up 
the land until it sparkled like a jewel, but they gave no 
sensuous beauty to the scene. There is nothing pagan about 
the Christian Valley of Avalon. 

Just as in Assisi the company of saints and pilgrims seems 
in keeping with the atmosphere of the city, so at Glastonbury 
the sudden meeting with Joseph of Arimathaea would cause 
little surprise to a lonely stranger who might be wandering 
through its streets and watery byways. 

On such an evening, near a meadow, whose tall daisies and 
buttercups decked the slopes of Weary-all Hill, a girl, a pil- 
grim from a far country, was lying on her back, gazing up at 
the blue sky overhead. 

The gold buttercups which carpeted the meadows were to 
her the leaf-gold with which the monks had covered the back- 


WITH OTHER EYES 


9 


grounds of their illustrated missals. The white daisies, the 
blue veronicas and the purple violas punctuated the meadows 
just as delicately painted flowers decorate the golden pages 
of mediaeval missals. 

The blue of forget-me-nots, which marked the passage of 
a hidden stream leading from the Chalice Well, reminded the 
girl of a river bordered with flowers in “The Hours of the 
Virgin,” a velvet-bound family possession which had lain for 
as long as she could remember inside a glass-covered table in 
her -grandmother’s drawing-room. It was a token of the religion 
for which her forefathers had left their homes in the old world, 
hoping to find tolerance in the new. 

The Holy Hill, the flower-decked meadows, the one high 
church-spire, very grey and slim against the golden background, 
were all familiar to her; they were all in the miniatures. 

This new-old world of Avalon made her feel a pilgrim, and 
very far from home. The spirit of stillness linked the place 
with the past. 

After weeks of moisture and rain, the grass was not dry 
enough to lie upon for very long with safety, so after gazing 
at the landscape from many points of view — from under her 
arms, with her slim body bent almost double; from her knees, 
with her head bowed down and upwards; from a standing 
attitude, which necessitated the throwing of her head back- 
wards until her eyes saw the Gothic architecture of the white 
clouds, surrounded by the green and gold of the meadows, and 
the tops of the houses, and the church-spire, upside down — she 
shook out her skirts, and became a normal being once more. 

As she stood slimly upright, she faced a stranger, a young 
man who, to her mind, was the very embodiment of English 
good looks and conventional breeding. Noticing the glint of 
humour in his eyes, she felt that some sort of apology was 
necessary for her extraordinary behaviour — that is to say, if 
he had been watching her odd gymnastics, which she felt sure 
he had. 

Her hat had fallen to the ground, her hair was disordered 
by its contact with the flowers of the meadow. Gleaming petals 
of buttercups powdered its darkness with patches of pure gold, 
while the small heads of bruised veronicas dotted her white 
frock with blue. 


10 


WITH OTHER EYES 


Herrick’s lines: 

“A sweet disorder in the dress 
Kindles in clothes a wantonness . . 

were exquisitely applicable to the girl’s appearance at that 
moment. 

“I have been looking at the world from upside-down,” she 
said. “I suppose you were watching me?” 

“I was,” he said — he spoke with equal frankness. “Did 
you find it good?” 

The girl’s candid manner amused him. She was completely 
self-possessed. “It is just like an illuminated missal. I have 
one at home, and the resemblance made me homesick. It’s odd 
how such a tiny thing can flood our minds with a thousand big 
memories, isn’t it?” 

“Then you are a stranger to Avalon?” 

“Why, certainly! My home is very far from here. But 
I didn’t feel at all sad or far away until I thought of that 
little book. ‘The Hours of the Virgin’ — took me right back.” 

“Don’t think of it now,” he said. “It’s too fine an evening 
to be sad.” 

“I wasn’t definitely sad,” she said. “Not a bit — only a 
little homesick, for, in an odd way, this Somerset valley re- 
sembles the valley I live in. It, too, is historically romantic, 
and it has a famous well which strangers visit.” 

The words were spoken, the man thought, to arouse his 
interest. The girl was too frank to be a coquette, yet she was 
sure enough of herself to seek to provoke his curiosity. He 
was already conscious of her attractions as a woman, and he 
knew that he could best provoke her interest in himself as a 
man by refraining from asking her where her valley lay. 

“I am glad you like Avalon,” he said. “It is my country. 
I have just returned to it after a long spell in London. I 
invariably climb to the top of Weary-all Hill before I do 
anything else, just to clear my lungs.” 

“And your eyes, too, I should think! It’s so beautiful! 
That old grey church down there is mothering the red-roofed 
town just as a hen mothers her chickens. It pleases me almost 
as much as the famous Abbey ruins.” 

“How did the church look in the upside-down world?” He 


WITH OTHER EYES 


11 


hazarded the remark simply to detain her, for her soft felt hat 
was being ruthlessly pressed close down upon her dark head. 
She was obviously going to dismiss him with a frank “Good 
evening.” 

“Quite beautiful, of course. When I admire a scene very 
much, I always look at it upside-down. I suppose it struck 
you as odd?” 

“For the moment it did. I suppose it is only when you are 
in the country that you look at it that way?” His eyes gleamed. 
This stranger smiled with his eyes delightfully; they spoke a 
hundred things at the moment. “It wouldn’t be so easy to do 
it in London.” 

They both laughed. A flash of Irish humour illuminated 
the girl’s distinctly tragic type of beauty. 

“Imagine lying on one’s back in the Strand !” he said. 

“I shouldn’t want to,” she replied. “It’s only when the 
world is beautiful that I feel I must see it upside-down.” 

“But the Strand can look beautiful, with a beauty all its 
own — the charm of London is not wanting in the Strand on 
a slightly misty evening, when a low winter sun is setting.” 

“I’ve been in London city so little — I can’t say. When I 
was in the Strand my only idea was to get out of it again with 
all my bones intact! I confess that I had no eyes for atmos- 
pheric effects.” 

“London is the most temperamental city in the world,” he 
said. “There are times when it is prosaic and hideous, and 
there are times when it is so wonderful that it is a city of 
mystery and charm.” 

“Then Turner was not exaggerating? Of course I went to 
see his pictures in the Tate Gallery — I am a good tourist, 
you see!” 

“Not a scrap, if you strike the right hour and the right 
atmosphere. On the Embankment you can see a more Tumer- 
esque effect than ever Turner dared to paint. You should have 
sailed down the Thames to Greenwich, and met the ships, with 
their big brown sails flapping, through the soft lights of greys 
and oranges and misty blues, and seen St. Paul’s dome looking 
like a balloon in the distance. You would have understood 
Turner better if you had.” He paused just a little ashamed 
of his enthusiasm. 


12 


WITH OTHER EYES 


Her hat was fastened on her head — or, to speak more exactly, 
she had pushed her head into her hat. The man wondered 
if she was anxious to hide the ever-changing blue of her eyes, 
or whether her soft hat was always worn that way to protect 
the whiteness of her forehead. He was not the first man who 
has cursed the modem fashion of wearing hats. 

“Good evening! I must be going back now.” She spoke 
decidedly. 

She was wondering whether the man had been climbing up 
the hill or coming down it when he came across her. She had 
not yet been to the top, and she had meant to do so; but she 
had better give up the idea, and say that she was returning 
to the town. That he would accept his conge, she did not 
doubt. 

“Have you seen the view from the top?” he asked. “It is 
well worth the climb, and if you are only returning to Glaston- 
bury so as to get rid of me, I’ll walk up the other side if you 
like!” 

A warm blush and a smile came simultaneously to the girl’s 
pale face. “No, I haven’t been to the top yet, but it will 
keep — the view has been here for so long, it won’t run away 
now. And I have dawdled too long already. Besides, if you 
walked up the other side, we should meet at the top.” She 
smiled again; the idea was absurd. 

“Then why not come to the top with me?” he said. “It 
won’t take you many minutes, and I could tell you the points 
of interest.” He looked at her quizzically. “I won’t bite be- 
cause I haven’t been introduced, you know, and I am really 
quite respectable, after a fashion, and few of us are more 
than that.” 

Laughingly the girl turned and began to climb the hill. 

“Why is it called Weary-all?” she said. “It isn’t really 
so hard to climb as Tor Hill. I went to the top of the Tor 
on the wrong side last night, and I had to go most of the way 
on my hands and feet.” 

“You seem fond of acrobatic methods! I think it is called 
Weary-all because legend says that Joseph of Arimathaea, who 
is supposed to have landed in Wales and wandered with his 
eleven disciples to Somerset, reached the Isle of Avalon on 
Christmas Day, and being very weary they sat themselves down 


WITH OTHER EYES 


13 


on this hillside. No doubt they enjoyed the view of the orchard- 
hills in the midst of the marshes. . . , That, of course, is 
pure legend! If you want the real derivation of the word, I 
believe it’s a corruption of Orwall — Over-all.” 

“Oh no, I don’t! Leave it at the legend, please! Don’t 
spoil the romance of the valley by matter-of-fact derivations!” 

“Well, you’ll find plenty of legendary romance here if you’re 
in search of it. When you’re tired of Joseph of Arimathaea and 
his flowering staff, you can turn your mind to King Arthur 
and his Knights, and the Holy Grail.” 

“Joseph’s flowering staff reminds me of Tannhauser and the 
Pope’s sprouting staff.” 

“Yes,” he said, “except that Joseph left no Venus behind 
him — or if he did, history does not mention her — and he was 
pious before his staff sprouted — in fact, it sprouted because 
he was so pious.” 

They stopped suddenly at a spot marked with a stone and an 
inscription. 

“This marks the site,” he said, “of the two thorns which 
sprang from Joseph’s staff. They were only hewn down by 
the soldiers of Oliver Cromwell — this records their death.” 

The girl made a face. “Oh, those hateful Puritans!” 

“Your sympathy is on the other side?” 

“My sympathies are never with intolerance! But did the 
thorn really blossom each Christmas Day?” 

“Yes, and every year they still contrive to have a piece 
of flowering thorn on the altar at St. John’s Church.” He 
smiled. “Shall I be killing romance again if I tell you that 
it’s not so very difficult in this soft mild climate, because the 
thorn is the crataegus praecox which flowers twice a year; it 
grows freely all over the West Country? And perhaps Joseph 
was a water finder.” 

“I certainly prefer the legendary explanation. I don’t see 
the use of visiting these ancient places with an entirely modern 
and material mind.” 

“We stick to local legends,” he said. “We are very proud 
of them. For instance, those fields lying down there are still 
familiarly known as ‘the Vineyards,’ because they are mentioned 
under Glastonbury in the Doomsday Book as ‘three arpents 
of vineyards.’ ” 


14 


WITH OTHER EYES 

“How nice! That’s what I came to England to enjoy.” 

When they reached the top of the hill the view was so 
enchanting that she became enthusiastic. She found herself 
talking to her companion as if they were friends. It is true 
that their conversation was almost limited to geographical and 
historical features, but they were young, and the country was 
bathed in the very ether of legendary romance and poetry. 

He pointed out a little town in the green valley below, lying 
in the peat moors to the south of Glastonbury, and told her 
that it was called Street, and that it owes its name to the fact 
that it lies on the old Roman street or road to Exeter. The girl 
gazed at it long and steadily; he wished that she would look at 
him instead. 

“To-day,” he said, “it owes its existence to boot and shoe, and 
to its limestone quarries.” 

“I don’t suppose you can understand how greatly these things 
appeal to us,” she said gravely. “Is it worth going to see?” 

“Scarcely, I think, from your point of view, unless you are 
really fond of antiquarianizing. I believe there are the remains 
of a Roman villa on that hill.” He came near to her and 
pointed with his stick. “You can see it — Ivy Thom Hill it is 
called — and there is a rather good little museum with some 
interesting fossils in it. They have been discovered in the 
limestone quarries, and have thrown a good deal of light on the 
ancient history of the place ; they prove that Street and Glaston- 
bury were closely in touch with each other in the old days. You 
can go by omnibus from Glastonbury to Street, but if you 
haven’t lots of time to spare, I’d advise you to leave Street 
alone.” 

“But I have lots of time,” she said. “I like the way it lies, 
and I like its simple name of Street, and the name of its hill. 
Ivy Thorn Hill. . . .” She repeated the name slowly to 

herself. “The names here are as pretty as the names at home,” 
she said aloud, “at least, almost. Weary-all Hill, Chalice Hill, 
The Isle of Avalon, Fishers Hill, Magdalen Street, and Glas- 
tonbury itself — aren’t they full of story?” 

“I suppose they are,” he said. “Probably it’s because they 
have been so familiar to me all my life that I don’t think about 
them. The town looks well from here, doesn’t it?” 

“Indeed it does!” she said eagerly. “Look at the red roofs 


WITH OTHER EYES 


15 


against the green valley in this wonderful light, and that dear 
old grey church rising up above it all — it’s so mediaeval and 
big! I love it! What churches they did build in Catholic 
times ! I should think their size had little to do with the num- 
ber of worshippers they accommodated; it was just to do honour 
to the glory of God.” 

“Or to the Church!” he said. “Don’t you think the church 
was always more than God to the ecclesiastics? Or the Saint 
it was dedicated to, and whose relic it was built to hold? A 
pilgrimage church used to bring vast wealth to a city. That 
was why the churches often gave huge sums for spurious relics. 
The demand for relics started a brisk trade in rubbish, which 
the credulous believed in.” 

“Now that’s killing romance again!” she said. “And please 
remember that I don’t want to hear that King "Arthur wasn’t 
buried in the Vale of Avalon, for I saw his stone coffin in the 
Abbey ruins only this morning, and I’m going to believe it’s 
true ! And also please don’t do away with the romance of the 
Holy Grail, and the Chalice Hill, or the healing powers of 
Joseph’s Well, or give scientific reasons for its — medicinal 
efficacy!” 

“Certainly not!” he said. “May I tell you instead something 
about the geological and geographical features of the place?” 

“Why, yes, please do, if they won’t detract from the charm 
of the scene. To me it’s just full of poetry and romance ! These 
little streams, covered with mauve ranunculuses, make it ever 
so like an illuminated Missal.” 

They had turned their backs on Street, and were looking 
over the meadows and the city towards the soft blue hills on 
the horizon. 

“Some people say that these watery meadows and all this 
valley once formed a bay of the sea. The Mendip Hills, the 
Quantocks and the Polden Ridge formed the old coastline. 
Their gigantic cliffs do suggest the sea-lashed rocks of a coast- 
line, don’t you think?” 

The girl cast her eyes over the line he indicated. “It certainly 
looks as if it had once been the sea ! It’s just a green bay of 
meadows, with hills encircling it, isn’t it?” 

“There are legends which tell of how ships sailed up from 
the Bristol Channel to ports which lay on the estuary. Anyhow, 


16 


WITH OTHER EYES 


it’s quite certain that in prehistoric times Glastonbury stood 
either on an island or on a peninsula, and that all these 
meadows were either a lake or an inland arm of the sea. There 
is quite a large lake village near Glastonbury; some of the 
things they dug up in it are in the museum here.” 

“Is there anything to see at the lake village itself?” Her 
eyes brightened. “Any little brown men with canoes and long 
poles?” She spoke laughingly. 

“No, nothing at all at the present moment but buttercups 
and daisies. After the settlement was excavated, and the things 
which were found in it were put into the museum, the place 
was allowed to go back again to grazing land. Still, if you care 
to make an expedition, and if we by any good chance should get 
properly introduced to one another, I should be only too glad 
to show you the site. My father is a keen antiquarian — he 
helped to excavate it. That’s how I have been telling you these 
things — they aren’t first-hand.” 

The girl hoped in her heart that they would meet with the 
necessary introduction, but all she said was, “Are cows just 
browsing on the top of the village now? Is there absolutely 
nothing to be seen?” 

“No, nothing at all,” he said. “You must remember that 
the settlements of these little brown Iberians were no longer 
here even when Julius Caesar made his famous landing on the 
Island, so you can’t expect much, can you?” 

The girl smilingly agreed. They next tried to discern the 
towers of Wells Cathedral and the Bristol Channel, but a soft 
evening mist was creeping over the landscape. 

“It all reminds me more and more of my own home,” she 
said. “We point out to visitors the historical Bay of Minas, 
and Blomidon rises out of the Valley of Grand Pre just as 
the hills here rise out of these flowery meadows.” 

“Then your home is in Nova Scotia?” he asked. 

“Why, yes, I come from Acadie.” 

“ ‘All the way from Acadie, from Acadie/ ” she said, adapt- 
ing a line from a poem which she knew would not be familiar 
to him. “Yes, all the way from Acadie, where at the moment 
the meadows will be knee-deep with hay-grass and aromatic 
with honey-clover and big marguerites. Oh, it’s really Arcady, 
and I love it!” 


WITH OTHER EYES 


17 


As she spoke she looked like a fair wanderer from Arcady, 
with the blue of the veronicas and the gold from the buttercups 
still powdering her dress and hair. 

“And do all the people in Acadie look at the world upside- 
down?” he asked. 

“If they have any good sense they do,” she said. 

“Isn’t Grand Pre in the Evangeline country?” he said. 
“That much, and no more, I know about the poem, for I really 
have forgotten it, if I ever knew anything about Evangeline” 

“I don’t suppose you ever did,” she said, “for Longfellow 
is no longer fashionable. His clear simplicity received its death- 
knell when Robert Browning started the craze for cryptic poetry. 
Still, the Well of Evangeline has its pilgrims, and so has the 
Valley of Grand Pre.” 

“Please don’t think I’m proud of not knowing,” he said. 
“I just don’t. I’ve a sort of an idea that the poem is very 
sentimental and ‘goody-goody.’ The name Evangeline is asso- 
ciated in my mind with a love-sick maiden of the old pious order 
of Early Victorian heroine.” 

“Is that so?” the girl smiled, and her smile was as cryptic 
as any line of Robert Browning’s poems. 

“Am I not right?” he asked. 

. “The poem is rather anti-English, I suppose, for history will 
no longer allow that the Acadians were unfairly treated by the 
English Government.” 

“Does Longfellow infer that they were?” 

The girl looked at him and laughed full-heartedly. “You 
certainly don’t know much about the poem, do you?” 

“No — I told you I didn’t. Evangeline sounds to me such a 
silly name; it puts me off — not that I ever thought of reading 
the poem.” 

“But it has a lot to do with English history,” she said 
laughingly. “Oh, you are all alike! I never met an English 
person yet who knew a word about the history of their 
Colonies!” 

“I must apologize for my countrymen, and plead guilty!” 

“Longfellow tells the story of the French Acadians and their 
sufferings from an exaggerated and sentimental point of view; 
he makes out that their treatment by King George’s men was 
simply brutal. But if you read later history on the subject, you 


18 


WITH OTHER EYES 

will be told that the Acadians had been really very, very trouble- 
some to the English, and that the French had been egging them 
on for years to break and defy every English law, until at last 
the only thing for England to do was to ship them all off to 
a new country, where the influence of the French would cease. 
Besides the soldiers who did it were from Massachusetts. That’s 
your history, and the other side to Evangeline.” 

“I feel ashamed,” he said, “to know so little about it. I’ll 
read the poem to-night.” 

“It might be a good plan,” she said. “And a bit of Canadian 
history to-morrow?” 

He laughed. “I quite agree with you that we are horribly 
ignorant of our own history, let alone the history of our Col- 
onies! Your people come over here, and you all know about 
the history of the things you are going to see.” 

She looked at him with her candid smile, a smile which was 
individual and attractive. It was the first time he had a chance 
of seeing how really beautiful she was. 

“In England you all live beside things of immemorial interest 
and beauty just as though they were grain stores or jam-fac- 
tories ! And I’ve discovered that it’s bad form to be enthusiastic, 
and one ought never to be seen with a guide-book ; it’s better to 
lose your way than ask it, and to remain ignorant than to read 
a guide-book! I wonder who set up all your strange ideas of 
good and bad form?” 

“It would be well to see ourselves as others see us,” he said. 
“I suppose it would give us some nasty jars.” 

“I always feel that this place ought to be Catholic still,” she 
said, by way of turning the conversation. “Monks and nuns 
would complete the picture, wouldn’t they?” 

“You come to it as a pilgrim,” he said. “The past history 
of the place is what most interests you about it?” 

“Why, it is its raison d’etre!” she said. “As far as I can 
see, the present-day people don’t live — they are merely existing 
as a part of the placid, untroubled landscape. They are nice 
people, but not a good substitute for monks and nuns from a 
scenic point, are they?” i 

“I, too, always look upon the place as a sort of sanctuary,” 
he said. “I feel that if I can only get here somehow, I shall 
be safe from everything that troubles and jars and endangers.” 


WITH OTHER EYES 


19 


“If it was Catholic, and never had been Protestant, think 
of how glorious it would be still, with its shrines and its 
spiritual atmosphere!” 

“Are you a Roman Catholic?” he asked, interrupting her. 

“Not now. We are not French-Canadians. My mother comes 
of staunchly Presbyterian stock.” 

“But the illuminated Missal?” he said. 

“Oh, it is a relic of my father’s Jacobean ancestors. His 
people were good Catholics until a generation or so ago.” 

This conversation had carried them to the bottom of Weary- 
all Hill. At the corner of Breere Lane and Fishers Hill, the 
girl suddenly stopped and said good-night. 

Feeling that he was dismissed, the man had to say good- 
night, but not before he had said, “I hope that Fate will be 
kind enough to allow me to meet you again ! It has been kind 
to allow me to walk with you up the hill.” 

She laughed. “Isn’t it odd when you come to think of it? — 
someone whom neither of us may know very well will probably 
say, ‘Allow me to introduce Mr. So-and-So,’ and then it will 
be quite correct for us to stop and speak to one another if we 
meet again, but until then I must say good-bye.” 

They parted, smiling at the absurdity of conventions. 

“Dash it all!” the man said to himself, as he watched her 
disappearing, with youthful ease of movement, down the hilly 
street. “She took good care not to introduce herself — she 
avoided telling me her name. What heavenly blue eyes she’s 
got!” 

He wondered what her name was; fitted some to her per- 
sonality, and quickly rejected them all. Her candour and 
freshness pleased him; there was something big and untram- 
melled about her individuality which impressed him even more 
pleasantly than her beauty. And “she was not the least 
Colonial.” He said the last words with all the unconscious 
vanity of the insular untravelled Englishman. 

These were his most definite thoughts on the subject of their 
chance meeting, but for the rest of the evening his male sense 
of her beauty troubled him, and held tenaciously to her. 

The persistence of even the most delightful thing can become 
annoying. To look at the girl’s eyes while he was standing 
near her had been very delightful, but to have their blueness 


20 WITH OTHER EYES 

thrust itself before his own while he was examining some of 
his father’s latest treasures in the way of ammonites and shells, 
was irritating. And they were so damnably blue, and there 
was also a smile in them which hurt his vanity. 

The girl dismissed him from her thoughts much more quickly. 
She had a mission to perform for her mother which necessitated 
the giving of instructions to a dressmaker who lived in a small 
cottage in Breere Lane. 

When they had been given, and the various travelled skirts 
had been examined, and their shortening discussed, she stepped 
out from the white cottage into the narrow lane, into the full 
glow of a golden sunset. 

“Quite a nice person!” she said to herself, reflectively. “But 
how English!” 

It was not the dressmaker to whom she was alluding, but to 
her companion of Weary-all Hill. Her mind travelled over his 
particular English idiosyncrasies; they were just a token of 
his nationality. 

“Yes, quite nice,” she said again. “His mouth is fine but 
hard, and his eyes — they are hard, too, until he smiles. I 
should call him very good-looking. He’s quite different from 
our boys — the Canadian expression and the English expres- 
sion are totally unalike — I notice that more and more!” 

The last remark obliterated him from her thoughts, because 
it made her think of the kindness in the eyes of a man who 
loved her. She owed him a letter, and in it she wanted to 
tell him all about the beauty of Glastonbury, and the re- 
semblance of the Vale of Avalon to their beloved Valley of 
Grand Pre. And there was something else besides which she 
had to say to him, and which she disliked saying. 

He was a cousin to her first cousins, and had been almost 
a brother to her until she went to school in Montreal. Then 
their intimacy had ceased, and when they met again, the man, 
who was a poet and a dreamer, fell in love with her and asked 
her to marry him. They had crossed the Atlantic in the same 
steamer, but the journey had not changed the nature of the 
girl’s old affection for her playfellow. 

“If a fine sea-voyage can’t do it, mamma,” she had said, 
“nothing on earth will.” 

“Perhaps something in heaven may, Eve,” her mother had 


WITH OTHER EYES 21 

said. “And I am old-fashioned enough to prefer marriages 
made in heaven to any other kind.” 

This was the end of a conversation which took place that 
same evening between the mother and daughter, when for the 
third time the girl sent her old playfellow her refusal. When 
the letter was written and sealed and posted, and the load was off 
her mind, she went to bed and dreamed of Grand Pre, and of 
the wanderings and hardships of Evangeline. 


CHAPTER II 


And so she was called Evangeline! after all that he had said 
about the name. And was she one of the cranks of Glaston- 
bury, who posed at living in. the Middle Ages, or at least spent 
their days in trying to revive the arts and crafts and religious 
dramas of the Middle Ages ? 

Allan Fairclough looked round the big hall-like room, with 
its lofty windows and simplicity of detail. The effect pleased 
him from an aesthetic point of view, because the hand of an 
artist had arranged everything in it, down to the large bunches 
of wild flowers which were placed with unerring judgment 
against backgrounds which made their beauty the most pleas- 
ing and decorative. The few pictures on the walls showed that 
whoever had arranged the room could only tolerate what was 
either beautiful or necessary. 

The old conventual atmosphere still clung to the building. 
“But what a roomful of cranks!” was Allan’s mental sum- 
ming up of the assemblage. And certainly there was an ex- 
traordinary collection of types gathered together. 

Evangeline stood out amongst them as something young and 
normal and vital. Her long string of pale amber beads suited 
her dark hair, even if it was, in Allan’s opinion, a bit too much 
in keeping with the general aesthetic air and dressing which 
was a part of the cult of the place. Yet how well it looked 
on her lettuce green gown. She set off the room to perfection, 
and suited its sense of wild flowers and country coolness. 

It was the evening in the week when the Hostel was prac- 
tising its old English ballad-singing, with a view to its forth- 
coming summer festival. 

The lady warden of the establishment, whose aim and 
ambition it was to make the old Chalice-well property, in the 
Isle of Avalon, once the home of Early Christian anchorites, 
and closely associated with the legends of King Arthur and 

22 


WITH OTHER EYES 


23 


the Holy Grail, a centre for the writing and production of 
mystery plays, pageants and pastorals, and for the training 
of those arts and crafts which belong to their production, was 
a very dear friend of his father’s. Her sympathy for the cause 
of humanity in general, and her good fund of common-sense, 
saved her from being what the man took her for — a “crank.” 
And she was certainly the reverse of a bore. 

Allan Fairclough had met her in the town in the morning, 
and she had asked him to join their “friendly evening” that 
same night. He liked the woman, and admired her type, but 
he had no tolerance for her mediaeval craze, so while he 
thanked her and half promised to come, he mentally resolved 
to give the “friendly evening” a very wide berth. He “would, 
feel such a fool at it,” and he never really knew what they 
were driving at. “The Glory of God in the Service of Life” 
was their motto. 

When, however, he met the lady warden a second time in 
the town, and this time she was walking with the girl who 
liked looking at the world upside-down, and he discovered 
that the girl was staying at the Hostel, his mind did not give 
the “friendly evening” quite such a wide berth. 

At eight o’clock that evening, without definitely saying to 
himself that he would go, he found himself ringing at the 
bell of the big grey stone building, which had once been a 
monastery, and was ushered into the large room where the 
guests met for their social evenings. 

When he was shown into the room he thought it was empty, 
for he was a little early, but almost immediately he heard 
the sound of soft laughter and the moving of seated figures. 
He turned quickly to where the sound had come from — laughter 
was scarcely what he had expected to hear. 

On a low sofa, almost buried in cushions, he saw the girl 
of Weary-all Hill. She was nursing a very pretty, fragile- 
looking lady on her lap; the next instant she had struggled 
from her low seat, and the lady was placed on her feet on the 
hearth-rug. As it was impossible to look dignified under the 
circumstances, the only thing for both women to do was to 
laugh. The older woman’s laughter changed to astonishment 
when she heard the friendly tones in which her daughter greeted 
the stranger. 


24 


WITH OTHER EYES 

“My mother was looking at this room upside-down,” she 
said. “When we are alone I always nurse her on my lap.” 

The delicate-looking woman, who resembled an eighteenth- 
century miniature, and who blushed like a girl, tried to 
apologise. 

“Come, Evangeline,” she said, apologetically, “it is get- 
ting late. We must dress; the guests will be arriving.” 

“Yes, mamma, but you really needn’t mind looking rumpled 
and a little untidy, because this gentleman knows we come 
from Acadie — we’re ‘Colonials,’ in fact — and he would be dis- 
appointed if we looked as civilised as the people of Glaston- 
bury!” 

The next minute the still bewildered mother and her smil- 
ing daughter had disappeared from the room. The mother 
looked, Allan thought, strikingly small and fragile beside her 
daughter, who was tall and as lithe in her movements as a 
Red Indian of the prairies. There was mockery in the look 
which the girl threw back over her shoulder as the door closed 
behind her. 

* * * * * 5ft 

And now they had re-appeared, and the “friendly evening” 
was in full swing. Old English carols had been sung and coun- 
try dances had been danced, and legendary dramas had been re- 
cited, and he had talked for a long time to the craftsman who 
was the maker of the “Miracle Play” furniture, and to the 
instructress who taught banner-making, and to a lady in green 
who taught the weaving of silver and gold fabrics. 

At last, after a long discussion as to whether the genius of 
folk drama is still with us, and if it can ever be revived, and 
once again made the medium of education and instruction as 
it was in the Middle Ages, he was rewarded by the lady warden, 
who brought up the girl of Weary-all Hill, and introduced him 
to her in the way in which she had said that they probably 
would be introduced to each other. 

The name Evangeline had kept ringing in his ears ever 
since the girl’s mother had mentioned it. It was associated 
in his mind now with the bluest of blue eyes and the darkest 
of brown hair; it seemed ages since he had associated it with 
the heroine of Longfellow’s poem, Evangeline. 

He had risen from his seat to offer it to Evangeline. 


WITH OTHER EYES 25 

“I have been sitting all the evening,” she said. “I prefer 
standing.” 

“Well, now that we have been properly introduced, can we 
go into the garden? I’m rather tired of this — are you?” 

“Oh, no,” she said. “I don’t think Miss Berners would 
like it if we did. She’s going to speak to us about the mid- 
summer festival and the play she is writing for it, and the 
gathering of the wood and stuff for the ‘ban-fire.’ ” The girl 
pronounced the last word very clearly. 

“For what sort of a fire?” he asked. His sense of humour, 
which appealed to the girl, showed in his eyes and softened 
his face. 

“I don’t know what sort of a fire a ‘ban-fire’ is,” she said — 
there was a fight for seriousness in her tones — “but Miss 
Berners said it was to be a ban-fire, not a bon-fire. I thought 
you could tell me.” 

“I wonder what it means?” he said. “The word bonfire 
really is derived from ‘bone-fire’ — the fires made from the 
bones which were burnt at public rejoicings and on great 
occasions. Of course, their origin is pre-Christian.” 

“Sacrificial fires, do you mean?” 

“Probably. But until very modern times in certain parts 
of the British Isles, especially in Scotland, the people used 
to save up their old bones for their midsummer bonfire.” 

Evangeline’s pretty nose went up. “How nasty! I prefer 
a fire made of wood and leaves, don’t you?” 

“I don’t know anything about a ban-fire. You’re sure she 
said ‘ban,’ not ‘bane’ ? ‘Bane’ might have come from the Scotch 
word ‘bane’ meaning bone — I have a patient who always speaks 
of her ‘sare banes’ — but that would mean just the same as 
bonfire.” 

“No,” she said, “it was ban-fire distinctly — it was not to 
be a bonfire.” 

The man laughed, but the girl remained serious. He had 
hoped that she was not one of the Glastonbury “mediaevalites,” 
but he was beginning to doubt it. 

Her mother came up at that moment and said, “Evangeline, 
do come and help me to talk French to the man Miss Berners 
has just introduced to me — he wants to know so much about 
French Canada, and I get so tied up for words.” 


26 


WITH OTHER EYES 


The girl put her arm protectingly round her mother’s waist and 
shoulders. “I’ll come and do my best in my best French,” she 
said laughingly, “if you will talk to Dr. Fairclough.” She turned 
to him as she spoke. “Please don’t blush, and you needn’t feel 
rude, or want to run away every time you hear my name men- 
tioned. It is Evangeline, and there’s no getting away from it, 
but I’ll leave mamma to tell you whether I am love-sick and 
sentimental and goody-goody or not.” 

The pretty little woman, who could still look like a girl if 
radiant youth was not too close at hand, now looked excusably 
bewildered. As she did so, Allan said to himself, “What a 
pretty girl she must have been — quite a beauty! So well-bred 
too, and yet they are Colonials!” 

“Evangeline leaves me bewildered,” she said, when her 
daughter had gone. “If you had to follow all the crazy ideas 
which pass through her mind in one hour, you’d feel as tired 
as I do! Now, what did she mean about her name? Can you 
explain it to me?” 

“Something with a more connected meaning in it than 
you fancy,” he said laughingly. The girl was “a caution.” 
Yet with all her oddness, she was amazingly attractive. He 
found himself trying to catch a glimpse of her dark head and 
amber-encircled throat. How slim she was, and yet not thin! 
What a suggestion of tragedy lay behind the laughter in her 
eyes. 

“Well,” Mrs. Sarsfield said, “she evidently wants me to 
let you know for some reason or other that she isn’t senti- 
mental or love-sick. Of course, I’ve no proof to offer you, but 
if you can take my word, I will confess that I wish she was 
sometimes just a little more so.” 

“I don’t think she’s a typical Evangeline in that respect, but 
to you that remark wants some explaining. I said to your 
daughter, while I was in ignorance of her name, that the per- 
sonality of Evangeline was associated in my mind with a love- 
sick, sentimental type of heroine. I confess to having no cor- 
rect knowledge of Longfellow’s heroine, but somehow she sug- 
gests an Early Victorian, goody-goody type to me.” 

“Oh, I see! And you didn’t know that my daughter was 
called Evangeline?” 


WITH OTHER EYES 27 

“Not until she put you off her knee this evening — not until 
you said ‘Evangeline, it’s getting late.’ ” 

The little mother looked at him with a new curiosity in her 
eyes. She was no fool, even if she had little of her daughter’s 
quickness of brain, and love of surprising people. 

“Then you had met before? This evening is not the first 
time?” 

“Ah — there you have caught me!” 

“Evangeline did not mention having seen you before.” The 
words were suggestive of the fact that if Evangeline had re- 
membered, she certainly would have told her. The man’s 
self-importance received a slight wound; their meeting had 
evidently been a thing of little moment! 

At this juncture Evangeline joined them again. “The 
Frenchman is going to sing some old Norman songs, mamma. 
He’s quite a dear, and he’s in his element here. I have been 
telling him some Acadian folklore legends.” At this she turned 
quickly to Allan Fairclough. “And you — were you telling 
mamma how you came upon me looking at the world upside- 
down on Weary-all Hill? Poor man!” she said gaily, “he 
thinks us quite mad, mamma dear, both of us!” 

“Oh, Eve,” her mother said, “so that’s how you behave when 
you go out for walks by yourself!” 

“Which way, little mamma? Looking at the world upside- 
down, or talking to a man whom I didn’t know? This par- 
ticular man told me that he wouldn’t bite if I climbed the 
hill with him, and so I took him at his word, and found that 
he is really a walking encyclopaedia of local information.” 

The humour in the girl’s eyes more than the substance of 
what she said, united the three in laughter. It was only when 
the Frenchman started his Norman songs that their repartee 
and laughter ceased. 

While the really delightful songs were being sung, Allan 
kept wondering to himself why Evangeline and her mother 
were living in the Hostel. He could not believe that the girl, 
with her sense of humour and her downrightness, could take 
part seriously in all the “tomfoolery,” as he called it. He 
knew the sort of things the community did, and observed — 
the reverent opening of the Holy Well at twelve o’clock every 
day, the odd services in the oddly-appointed chapel, the pro- 


28 


WITH OTHER EYES 


cessions in mediaeval costumes on the festivals of the seasons, 
the mediaeval theatre, with its mystery plays, and the looms 
for weaving ancient silk and gold fabrics. 

Once again the lady warden came to his rescue. She was 
human, and nothing which was human was beyond her sym- 
pathy. Evangeline was the most attractive thing in the room, 
and the young doctor had been extremely good, in spite of his 
wandering eye. / 

“Will you take Miss Sarsfield out into the garden,” she 
said, “if you won’t feel it chilly? It’s a dear garden at night!” 

Allan Fairclough wished that he had never called her a 
crank, even if he had qualified it with the word “nice.” Now 
he told himself that she was a “jolly good sort, and awfully 
elegant!” 

So out into the garden they went, and there, under the beauty 
of the stars, and the silence of the Chalice Hill, the girl’s mood 
became more serious, less bantering. 

At the end of the terraced garden, which lay surrounded by 
orchards, was the famous Holy Well, whose healing waters 
rush in great quantities from a hidden rock chamber. Of 
course they examined it; and there was much for youth to 
talk about in a place so individual and so steeped in romantic 
history. But although the girl’s bright bantering tones had 
changed, she still made it impossible for her companion to 
discover what her own views were about the Chalice Well 
settlement, and its cult of medievalism. 

The training at Chalice Well is based on the conviction 
that the genius of folk drama is still with us. Through its 
medium much that is precious in the great teachings of the 
past may be preserved to us, and some prophetic foreshadow- 
ings be possibly ventured for the future. 

How much the girl sympathised with the movement Allan 
could not discover. Her admiration of and affection for the 
lady warden would not permit of any form of criticism. He 
knew that guests who did not necessarily belong to the cult 
were received into the Hostel at a moderate sum per week. 
He hoped she was one of them. 

From things impersonal to things more intimate, in that 
they expressed ideas not relative to the institution, their con- 
versation drifted. Allan Fairclough found the girl an appre- 


WITH OTHER EYES 29 

ciative listener, and what man does not think the woman clever 
who has the gift of listening sympathetically. 

Allan’s ambition was to be a specialist, and not a provincial 
doctor. He told Evangeline that. “If I put ambition aside,” 
he said, “I could step as partner into my father’s business, and 
make a pretty good income almost directly.” His father had 
certainly the first practice in the town and locality. But it was 
not a life which appealed to the young man, who was conscious 
of the fact that in his own line he had ability, and that with 
patience he could carve out a career for himself in London. He 
knew that the one thing which specializing meant was not 
marrying early, and certainly not marrying early a girl with no 
money. He had seen his fellow-medical students married to 
girls without a farthing having to content themselves with 
settling down and making a practice in some place which held 
out no possible future as far as a career or position were 
concerned. 

Allan was still “walking the hospitals,” but he had been 
signalled out by an ear specialist, who had hinted that he 
might need a junior partner in his practice. Allan had the 
necessary qualifications in the way of personal appearance, 
social position and ease of manner, all of which are almost 
as necessary as brains to a doctor who hopes to obtain a posi- 
tion in a fashionable district in London. 

His father naturally would have liked him to remain in 
Glastonbury, where he would have had his companionship all 
his life, but his ambition for his only child urged him to fall 
in with his boy’s wishes. 

“Then don’t fall in love, Allan, my boy!” was what he 
always said. “Your expenses in London will be enormous. 
Keep a level head with the pretty girls, or give up ambition 
and settle down to romance and provincial domesticity ! There’s 
plenty of interest in Glastonbury if you will let yourself be 
interested!” 

And so it came to pass that Allan approached almost every 
girl he met with the one idea in his mind that he was not 
going to let himself fall in love with her. 

With Evangeline, he felt that he was playing a dangerous 
game. She was becoming more pleasing to his senses and 
intelligence every minute, and he was already beginning to 


30 


WITH OTHER EYES 


see tempting visions of a very happy life, and a desirable one, 
with just such a girl, even in dull out-of-the- world Glastonbury. 

It was not until they were retracing their steps from the 
higher ground of the herb-scented garden (herb and medi- 
cinal plant cultivation was one of the Chalice Hostel indus- 
tries) and were passing a building which had been the chapel 
when the Hostel was a monastery and seminary, that he dis- 
covered that the girl was as unaffected by the cult of the place 
as he was himself. She was merely a paying guest. 

“Shall we come into the chapel ?” she said. “Have you ever 
seen it?” 

“Not since its Popish days,” he said. “Do they use it for 
service now? What or whom do they worship?” 

“I don’t quite know,” Evangeline said, “for I make no 
pretence of understanding the beliefs or the ethics of their 
cult. I told Miss Berners when we came here that mamma 
and I must be perfectly free — I couldn’t be a humbug or pose 
at living up to what I don’t feel.” 

“I see!” he said aloud, while in his heart he said, “Thank 
God you can’t!” 

“Mind,” she said, as they paused before entering the chapel, 
“there is a great deal about it which appeals to me tremendously 
—they are such charming people, so cultivated and so gentle; 
if it’s their religion that makes them so — well, the practical 
result is very delightful! ‘The Glory of God in the Service of 
Life’ makes them almost saintly in their reverence for every- 
thing, even poverty and misery.” 

“A little too much so for me!” he said. “I think I’d prefer 
being a little more in touch with the present-day life, even if 
it has its ugly side.” 

“You’d rather make medicines than missals?” 

“I’d rather develop science for the benefit of the suffering, 
than sing Saxon songs round Holy Wells, and wear a painted 
crown in a mystery play.” 

Evangeline refrained from meeting his eyes. 

They entered the chapel, which was in total darkness, ex- 
cept for the light from one lamp — a little basin full of oil 
with a floating wick in it— which was placed on a ledge at 
the foot of a tall black wooden cross, which reached from the 
floor to within two inches of the ceiling. There were a few 


WITH OTHER EYES 31 

seats in the building, and one round black oak table in front 
of the cross. 

On this table there were three circles of wild flowers, ex- 
quisitely arranged in low round vases. The circle of vases 
was connected by small green leaves, laid on the black oak. 
The effect was very beautiful. 

“They use this chapel for the presentation of religious sub- 
jects in drama as well as for prayer. They have open-air 
representations in the garden, and the more sensational plays 
in the theatre. That big cross represents unity, not sacrifice.” 

“Have you ever seen one of their festivals?” 

“Not yet. But I hope to see the midsummer one.” 

“They are really very beautiful,” he said, “and well done 
- — there’s no mistake about that! But what’s it all for?” 

“I suppose just to try and introduce amongst the crafts- 
men and the peasants the love of religious drama and folk- 
lore. And the students here can be engaged by other towns 
and places to direct and organize mediaeval plays or pageants.” 

“That’s all very well,” he said. “In the Middle Ages the 
drama was the recognized medium of education and instruction 
because the people couldn’t read; they had the churches painted 
with pictures to illustrate the Bible for them, so that they could 
read it in pictures; they had mystery and morality plays for 
the same purpose. But what’s the use of these things to-day?” 

“You prefer the cinema?” she said. 

“Good cinemas are very good things,” he said, “just as bad 
ones are very bad. You can give a poor man a trip from the 
Cape to Cairo for sixpence.” 

They were standing beside the black table. 

“Of course,” she said, “this table is King Arthur’s Round 
Table. It’s beautifully made, by a local craftsman. Look, 
the centre lifts out, and it can expand and expand. . . .” 

He interrupted her. “Until it embraces the whole world!” 

“That’s the idea, I suppose.” She paused for a moment. 
“Do you know,” she said, after a little thought, “I just hate 
laughing at anything belonging to the Hostel — it’s really so 
quaint and charming, and they are so beautifully in earnest, and 
so much nicer than most other people!” 

“I know they are,” he said. “And there’s so much real 


32 


WITH OTHER EYES 


talent and brains amongst them, that it makes me annoyed 
that it isn’t diverted into some more fruitful channel.” 

“Perhaps it’s of more good than we understand? It cer- 
tainly is in keeping with the atmosphere of the Valley, and 
I believe that it has a refining influence on all the people 
who are connected with it. You see lots of the people in the 
town take part in all the festivals and dramatic representa- 
tions.” 

“Oh, yes, I know!” he said. “My father’s dispenser is 
awfully keen about it all.” 

“It’s a sort of English Oberammergau.” 

Quite unconsciously they had settled themselves on two of 
the seats in the chapel. Their conversation drifted quickly 
from one subject to another. It was not until the lady warden 
appeared that Evangeline realized how long they had been 
talking. 

With her splendid vitality and magnetism, the lady warden 
caught them up in a whirlwind of information and discus- 
sion as to the plans for the summer festival, but before Allan 
Fairclough could ask her to definitely explain the meaning 
of the “ban-fire” which was to be gathered by the villagers, 
and burned on the hillside, some of the residents of the Hostel 
trooped into the chapel. 

With a cordial good-night, Evangeline and her companion 
separated themselves from the party. Allan Fairclough was 
to return to his home in the town, and Evangeline had to 
rejoin her mother for the night; it was quite bed-time. 

“They are going to sing their evening hymn, I think,” 
Evangeline said. “I suppose it’s just like any other hymn, 
and probably they believe in just what you and I believe in, 
but I never feel quite certain. I suppose it’s God made mani- 
fold in the sun and the moon and the stars whom they worship, 
but I never feel quite clear about it all. I don’t know what they 
feel about Christ, for the cross represents unity. As I don’t 
want to be drawn into the religious part of the life here, I 
always manage to evade anything like these services.” 

Allan Fairclough looked at her understandingly. “I’m 
so glad you aren’t quite one of them !” he said. 

“Oh, but why?” she said, humbly. “Don’t imagine that I 
think myself superior! It’s just that I can’t — I wish I could.” 


WITH OTHER EYES 


33 


“But why?” he said. 

“Because the people . here are so happy, so engrossed, so 
ready to live ! They never ask themselves if life’s worth living, 
or what it’s all for!” 

“And do you?” he said; his eyes expressed surprise. 

“Oh, yes! very often! Some days living seems so foolish, 
so needless, and the Hand that guides so ruthless! I see all 
the shearing down, the casting aside, the blotting out, until 
I often think it’s hardly worth struggling at all, for whatever 
we do individually, the world will go on just the same.” 

“I’m sure these days with you are in the minority — we all 
have them. Who knows but what the lady warden drowns a 
great deal in medievalism?” 

“That’s just why I envy her! She couldn’t drown herself 
in it if the whole thing wasn’t very real to her. With me it 
never could be real, so I never could drown anything in it.” 

When they parted Allan Fairclough asked the girl if he might 
take her to the site of the lake village. Mrs. Sarsfield had 
met them at the entrance to the reception hall, and he politely 
asked if she would go too. 

Evangeline answered for her. “Why, mamma has never 
walked more than a mile at a time in her life! I’d have to 
carry her all the way, shouldn’t I, mamma?” 

“You may take Evangeline,” Mrs. Sarsfield said. “I am 
only too glad to think that she has found a companion for 
her long walks, and one who knows the country. But I’m 
not so feeble as she infers. I think people often walk to places 
which are not nearly so pretty as the ones they started from — 
walking for walking’s sake just tires one for nothing.” 

“You’re not feeble, little mamma, only the one thing your 
feet don’t seem to have been made for is walking. They’re 
quite good in every other respect. I often wonder how mamma 
got along when she was young!” 

“We rode so much in my young days,” she said. “You 
forget, Evangeline, that riding was almost necessary.” 

“And now you have got an amazon of a daughter who loves 
to carry you about!” She laughed tenderly, as she put her 
arms round her mother’s shoulders. “I’m waiting for you to 
say good-night.” She turned her eyes to Allan. “When mamma 
is safely in bed, I begin to read. It’s hopeless trying to read 


34 


WITH OTHER EYES 

while we are together — we just interrupt each other all the time I 
We could talk all day and all night, I believe.” 

Allan Fairclough said good-night. “I will call for you to- 
morrow,” he said, “at three o’clock.” 

“And I’ll take a tea-basket,” Evangeline said, “and we can 
have a picnic. It’s a real English tea-basket.” 

“And I’ll take some cakes and cigarettes.” 

“And do you mind if I bring my sketch-book?” 

“There will be nothing to sketch!” 

“Nothing at all? Can’t I fake a ‘lake dwelling’ just to 
surprise them at Grand Pre?” 

“There will be nothing but brown cows knee-deep in white 
daisies and yellow buttercups! It’s awfully flat — it was once 
a lake, remember. You’ll see the cows being milked in the 
meadows, dozens and dozens of them !” 

“I can see that at Grand Pre. You must manage something 
else.” 

“That’s all I can promise! Good-night!” 

5|S 3)C S|« S|« jjc 

The lake-village was the first of the many excursions and 
walks which Evangeline took with Allan Fairclough. 

She was introduced to his father, with whom her mother 
soon became pleasantly intimate. It amused Evangeline to 
see her dainty mother coquetting with the antiquarian doctor, 
who towered over her in height, and who in breadth would 
have made three of her. He looked what he was — a robust 
country gentleman, and a doctor of the old school. With all his 
love of fossils and his devotion to the chalk quarries of Street 
and their buried treasures, he had a very pretty appreciation of 
what is dainty and attractive in a woman. It pleased him to 
have a pretty little lady, who belonged to the refined type of 
gentlewomen amongst whom his boyhood had been spent, seated 
by his side in his study. Fine ammonites looked finer in her 
hands, while the perfume of her presence made him feel 
strangely young and eager. 

He also admired, in a different way, the tall girl, with the 
dark head, who would swing into his study and claim her 
mamma when she returned from an evening’s excursion with 
his son, but she did not appeal to his senses in the way her 
silent little mother did. 


WITH OTHER EYES 


35 


The coming of the mother and daughter to Avalon had made 
a delightful interlude in his life, which up till now had never 
struck him as being monotonous or the least narrow. When 
the little woman, who was learning to take a genuine, if silent, 
interest in his hobby, spoke of her eventual return to Grand 
Pre, the Doctor felt a sudden and overwhelming consciousness 
of the lack of feminine sympathy which so far his life had 
given him. His wife had died when his son was still a child, 
and since her death a working housekeeper had been the only 
woman in his home. His manservant and a boy made up his 
domestic staff. 

When the Doctor saw how things were drifting with his 
ambitious son and the blue-eyed girl, he wondered to him- 
self what was going to happen. He guessed enough about the 
financial affairs of both mother and daughter to feel pretty 
sure that Evangeline would have no dowry. Was Allan, he 
wondered, going to “chuck’’ ambition for romance? Was he 
allowing the girl to think that he meant marrying her if she 
would have him? 

The girl was hard to read. He wondered if Allan under- 
stood her. She appeared to like him and enjoy his society, and 
she was conscious of his admiration ; there was no doubt of that. 
Allan’s feelings might still be platonic, although he did not 
really believe that any young man ever cared to give up the 
greater part of his holidays for the companionship of a girl for 
whom his feelings were platonic. A youth does not rise early 
and sit up late, so as to be able to spend one or two more hours 
in the company of a girl for whom his feelings are platonic. 

By the time the buttercups had shrunk, and the white haw- 
thorns were touched with brown, and the gold of the laburnums 
lay scattered on the smoothly-mown lawns, which bestowed a 
sense of care and respect for the Abbey ruins, Evangeline and 
Allan Fairclough were playing at the old, old game, of pre- 
tending not to be in love. It was a sort of hide-and-seek with 
each other’s feelings. The girl’s beauty had deepened, as it was 
bound to do, for there is no surer beautifier to womanhood than 
the excitement of a man’s admiration and the birth of love. 
It illuminated Evangeline like the glow from a lamp. The 
Doctor, who had likened her eyes to a little rock-plant in his 
garden, which he called “Heavenly Blue,” often called her by 


36 


WITH OTHER EYES 


that name. When two young people find all things interesting 
because they are looking at them together, there is much to be 
done in any locality. 

Playing at the game of platonic affection made it possible 
for them still to take a real and intelligent interest in all they 
did and saw. So far a crisis had always been avoided. With 
declared lovers sight-seeing degenerates into perpetual love- 
making. 

With man-like selfishness, Allan longed and tried to make 
Evangeline give him some definite proof of her affection. At 
the same time, he did not wish to put himself in the painful 
position of having anything like a scene, which there might 
be if he told her that he loved her, but that he did not wish 
to marry her, or even become engaged to her. What he wanted 
to do was to both eat his cake and yet keep it. He had all a 
selfish man’s horror of scenes and of difficult situations. 

He wanted her love, he wanted her confession of it, but he 
did not want her enough to give up his freedom for her, and 
to risk the ruin of his career. 

A hundred times he had said to himself if only she had 
had a fortune, what a wife she would be! What a “ripping” 
time they could have had together! He almost considered 
himself a martyr because she had not wealth as well .as beauty. 

No one in Glastonbury knew how often they saw each other. 
If they had, tongues would have talked, and Allan did not 
wish that. So very often Evangeline and her mother met him 
at Wells or Sharpham, or at any other place they might have 
arranged for an excursion. 

On these occasions Mrs. Sarsfield was only too glad to find 
some comfortable and beautiful spot where she could rest, while 
her daughter and Allan amused themselves by seeing all that 
the locality held in the way of picturesque or historical interest. 
Sometimes the Doctor, much to his son’s amusement, found 
that it was convenient to visit a patient in the neighbourhood 
in which they were to take their tea. On these occasions the 
quartette was a delightful one, for Evangeline loved to see 
her mamma looking young again, under the sun of her Indian 
summer. The Doctor’s liking for her companionship, gentle 
and sympathetic but totally unintellectual, was acting upon 
the mother much in the same way as the son’s attentions were 


WITH OTHER EYES 


37 


acting upon her daughter. She was a woman again, and an 
individual. But so unconscious was she of her own pleasant 
flirtation that if Evangeline had even breathed a word of her 
on-looker’s knowledge of the game, her mother would have 
shrunk back into her shell, and felt ashamed of what was really 
a thing to be proud. 


CHAPTER III 


What feeling can be more invigorating for a woman who has 
said good-bye to youth than the sudden discovery that she is 
not too old to be loved and wanted by a man whom the world 
both esteems and admires? Is a young girl, in her first love, 
ever so conscious of her happiness? Is there any of the older 
woman’s reverence and gratitude for life’s supreme gift, in her 
passion? 

The Indian summer of Evangeline’s mother brought into 
blossom a delicate renaissance of her youth, the last blossoms 
in a sheltered garden. She had not the vaguest idea that the 
Doctor’s attentions to herself were in any way foreign to his 
every-day existence. She did not know that his son was highly- 
amused and not a little surprised at his conduct, for his father 
was pre-eminently a scholar and an antiquarian. 

A more unworldly creature than the Doctor it was scarcely 
possible to find, or a less vain woman than the little mother 
who seemed to him the embodiment of desirable femininity. 
He was glad that she was no longer young in years, although 
she was still young enough to be beautiful in his eyes. 

But Allan’s vacation was coming to an end. This was the 
last excursion which the quartette were to enjoy together. It 
had been to Shepton Mallet. On their return to Wells, from 
whence they were to take the train back to Glastonbury, at a 
point of the road about a quarter of a mile from the city they 
halted. The most perfect view lay spread before them. They 
had passed through a copse and had reached a stile, which had 
the magnetic quality for lovers possessed by all stiles. 

Allan and Evangeline had walked from Shepton to Wells; 
their parents had driven. The stile seemed to be a point at 
which something definite must take place; it suggested that 
a psychological moment in the day’s outing had arrived. It 
had not been one of such pure enjoyment as many others had 
been; a lack of conversation had soon become apparent, an 

38 


39 


WITH OTHER EYES 

awkward feeling that as friends they had said all that they 
could say to each other until something which was being held 
back had been discussed. 

Allan wished that he was safe at home and out of it. He 
did not know how long he could trust himself; his feelings 
had been stemmed up too long. Some wise voice kept on saying : 
“I won’t kiss the girl. I won’t say one word of rot to her. 
In an hour’s time we shall be home, in two days I shall be 
back at work, pegging away like fun and feeling jolly glad 
that I haven’t made an ass of myself!” Everything physical 
and human said: “Enjoy what you can when you can!” 

And certainly the girl was inviting, a creature of intellect, 
passions, and picturesque beauty. 

Resting on the stile, her blue eyes gazing down at the moat 
and green-encircled cathedral, Evangeline remained lost in 
thought; she scarcely saw the beauty of the scene, even while 
her senses embraced it. 

A month ago she had met Allan for the first time ; to-morrow 
he was going away. In a few months her mother and she would 
be back in Grand Pre ; she would be looking over a valley which 
to her had once seemed full of romance and history. Now, 
even as she thought of it, how modem it all seemed, compared 
to the Valley of Avalon ! How cold the sufferings of Evangeline 
compared to the pathos of Elaine and the passion of Sir 
Launcelot. 

These abbeys, and cathedrals of England had been built and 
destroyed and rebuilt centuries before anything like history 
had laid its glamour of romance on her valley. Her heart 
felt lonely at the idea of being back in the old familiar place, 
robbed of the old familiar sense of it. We cannot go back and 
pick up the threads which have been broken. Evangeline knew 
this; try as she might, the old Acadian charm of Grand Pre 
would never seem the same again. 

When Allan had succeeded in lighting his cigarette— no 
easy matter on the windy hill — he came up to where Evangeline 
stood and, in spite of all that his reason urged, he slipped his 
arm through hers. 

“This is our last evening together,” he said, “and hasn’t 
it been just perfect?” 

Evangeline dropped her hooked arm so that his hand, al- 


40 


WITH OTHER EYES 


though it remained on her arm, was less intimately close. She 
was not proof against the magnetic current of youth’s fevered 
pulses. 

“It’s been a glorious day,” she said. “But I still prefer 
Glastonbury to Wells — it’s more homely and romantic.” 

“I didn’t mean only the sights we’ve seen,” he said. “I 
meant our time together. You’ve been most awfully good to 
me, letting me have you to myself.” 

Evangeline’s brows contracted; her eyes questioned. “Why?” 
she said. “It is you and your father who have been kind to 
my mamma and to myself. We were the strangers.” 

Something told the girl that he was anxious to say tender 
and nice things without committing himself or allowing him- 
self to go too far. In spite of her feeling for him, she had 
long ago realized his selfishness and his desire for worldly 
prosperity. She felt that, young as he was, his heart was 
cautious; he could never really forget himself for any girl; 
mere love would never triumph. The more she realized it, the 
more she longed for his complete surrender. He liked her, 
but not so much as all the good things that money can bring 
into life, not so much as fame and notoriety. Her far-seeing 
sense of things argued for him. If he remained single, he 
could have many such pleasurable flirtations ; if he lost his head 
and married, all of the soft sweet things of life would be 
condensed into the time of their engagement and a very brief 
period afterwards. Evangeline knew this; she saw the wisdom 
of his caution. And yet the old Eve was strong enough to urge 
her to complete her conquest. Her scorn for his lack of passion 
angered her. Love should be all-powerful. 

The desire is inborn in every woman to experience the satis- 
faction that at least one man in her world is willing to give 
up anything to possess her. With the woman ought to lie the 
caution, with her the use of the bearing-rein. 

“You’ve been awfully kind,” he said, “in giving me such 
a good time. My holiday has just been perfect. If you 
hadn’t been here, I’d have been horribly bored.” 

They were talking prettily and politely, quite absurdly so, 
considering youthful intimacy of a long month together! 

“You have put up with a girl for your pal,” she said, still 


WITH OTHER EYES 41 

more lightly. “You’ve never made me feel that I am a mere 
woman — and a Colonial at that.” 

“A mere woman!” he said significantly. “The nicest part 
of it has been having you all to myself. It’s spoilt me, though 
— I shall miss you horribly.” His eyes told her that he could 
not enjoy the niceness much longer and keep his head. 

“You’ve got your work.” Her eyes were seeing into the 
distance, into far Grand Pre, where no work lay for her. 
“How selfish men can be!” she thought. “Cruelly selfish.” 

“Yes,” he said, “I shall work. It’s the only thing to do.” 

“And when, if ever, I come back to England,” she said, 
“you will be a famous specialist in Harley Street. I’ll have 
to pretend that I have some ear trouble and consult you.” 

“That’s to say, if I can afford to be a specialist,” he said. 
“But you’ve got to hold out for specializing — no sitting down 
to a smug little country practice like my father, or marrying at 
twenty-four, as he did. Dad’s curiously sentimental, though 
you mightn’t think so.” 

“I suppose not,” she said. “But you can always marry 
money, and set up for yourself.” 

Her nerves were throbbing; Allan was only thinking of 
himself and the trials of his profession. She almost hated 
him, even. while his eyes spoke a hundred bewildering things. 

“Not so easily done! I couldn’t bring myself to marry 
just for money, and if you do the other thing — marry where 
money is — it’s generally rather hard to find.” He looked at 
her, at her proud, disconsolate eyes. “Why do all the nicest 
girls and the pretty ones have no money?” 

His manner was telling her all that his self-control held 
back. By some trick, unworthy of herself, she knew that she 
could break down that self-control, smash it to atoms. 

“The law of compensation, I suppose. It would be hard 
if we had nothing.” Her dark head went up. She was 
agonized with annoyance, wounded into defiance. This was 
his apologia! She swung round, with the intention of going. 
“We must be moving,” she said casually. 

Her mettle whipped his desire; her lean, supple activity 
roused the male competitive instinct. He was a match for 
her; his sex urged his physical mastership. His arm went 
quickly round her waist. 


42 


WITH OTHER EYES 


“Give me one kiss, Evangeline, just one for good luck! 
I want one so badly — you don’t know how badly.” 

“Yes, I do — it’s not so very badly!” she said, pushing him 
from her as she spoke. 

“Yes,” he said, “very, very badly.” The girl’s resistance 
had not helped his self-control. If she had assented, he 
would have felt afraid; that would have helped him, awakened 
his caution. Now that she was resisting, not so much by 
struggling as by the decision in her voice, he caught her in his 
arms and drew her to him. 

He was young, and Evangeline carried with her the fragrance 
of youth, the perfection of supple limbs. In his arms, which 
lacked nothing of a lover’s passion, he was conscious, even 
through her resistance, of the delicious response to his passion 
which would be his for a worthy asking. A gift to be won one 
day by some man luckier than himself. 

When a man first kisses a woman and holds her in his arms, 
he is instantly aware of her possibilities and her limitations. 
Resistance because resistance must be made does not hide it. 
It is the inward fire. The response to passion, the unconscious 
give and take — these are beyond our will to control, beyond 
human subterfuge. 

Allan for one moment lost his head while Evangeline’s white 
throat felt for the first time the tenderness of a lover’s kisses. 
If her ears did not enjoy the satisfaction and beauty of the 
immortal words, “I love you,” her physical being needed no 
telling. For one moment her resentment was swept away. 
Soft lips were pressing on her throat; new sensations, exquisite 
and stupefying, were gaining their dominion over her senses. 
Her strength, of which she had been so pleasurably aware only 
a few moments ago, had changed to extreme lassitude. His 
arms crushed her, and she was lost in his strength. Its agony 
was delicious. Only of that was she keenly conscious. 

As his lips left her throat and sought her mouth, some 
power of thought struggled for mastery in the girl’s mind; 
she fought for self-control, for strength to resist. 

“Don’t!” she whispered. “Please don’t! You are unjust, 
unfair!” 

Allan was seized with a flood of remorse. He withdrew his 
arms quickly, determinedly. 


WITH OTHER EYES 


43 


In silence Evangeline steadied herself against the stile. He 
saw that a new beauty had transfigured her. She was exquisite; 
passion had crowned her. 

“Forgive me,” he said. “I know I had no right to — it was 
unjust.” 

Evangeline looked at him with eyes which showed him the 
pettiness of his own soul. 

“Had you not?” she said. There had been hope in her 
heart. Her frank question said very plainly, “Love has 
surely given you the right, if that love is great enough, if it 
has triumphed.” 

“No,” he said. “I had no right; I was unfair.” He bent 
his head. 

Evangeline saw that he was shaking, as if from a sudden 
chill. She allowed him a few moments to regain his self- 
control; it seemed like an hour. 

“If you had no right,” she said, “if you have been unfair, 
I think we had better go home.” 

“No,” he said, “let us sit down. I want to tell you what 
a cur I am; I can make you hate me. It will be best.” 

Evangeline seated herself by his side on a bank on which 
daisies were going to sleep and yellow buttercups were closing 
their glossy petals. The moisture in the evening air was laden 
with the scent of hawthorn, which still, though touched with 
brown, covered the hedges. Birds, tired with the wonder of 
spring, were speeding to hidden homes. 

“Are you married?” Evangeline said, with surprising sud- 
denness. “Is that what you want to tell me?” 

“Good God, no!” he said. “What made you think that?” 

“You said that you wanted to tell me what a cur you were, 
that I should hate you.” 

“So I am a cur,” he said. “I love you, and I’ve tried to 
make love to you. I think you do care for me, and I don’t 
want to marry anyone; I don’t mean to marry for many years 
yet. I want to be free.” 

Evangeline thought for a moment and then she said: “The 
girl of mamma’s day would have told you that she didn’t want 
to marry you, that she didn’t love you, that you needn’t distress 
yourself. I’m a girl of to-day, even if I am called Evangeline.” 

They both laughed, but the mirth was forced. 


44 


WITH OTHER EYES 

4< I do love you — at least, I think I do, for if I hadn’t, I 
should have slapped you when you kissed me.” She tried to 
laugh. “It is what you deserved.” 

“Don’t,” he said, “don’t. I hate myself. I know it 1” 

“Oh no, you don’t!” she said. This time the girl really 
laughed. “You love yourself, you love yourself so much that 
you don’t know what loving anyone else really means, and I 
doubt if you ever will.” 

Allan raised his head and looked at her. Her eyes were 
serious, but her attitude was tender. Her smile was more than 
he could bear. He caught hold of her hand. 

“You’re a brick!” he said. “And I do love you, just 
frightfully!” 

She interrupted him. “After a manner,” she said lightly. 
“But you musn’t hold my hand. I love you in another manner, 
so that’s not the game — at least, not with us, in Grand Pre, 
I want to keep cool, to be just to us both, if I can.” 

“Oh don’t! Don’t for Heaven’s sake tell me that you love 
me!” 

His words were a groan and extremely satisfying to the 
girl’s pride. He had rolled over from his sitting position on 
the bank and lay with his face buried in the sleeping daisies 
and blue veronicas, his anguished body pressed close to the 
green bank. If he might not feel her tenderness in his arms, 
he must embrace the flower-decked world, he must press close 
to it to still the hunger of his arms. Evangeline remained 
silent. 

“I do love you,” he said, in a muffled way. “You don’t 
know how much I love you. But girls never have the hateful 
question of a career to think about. If I could do just what 
I wanted to, what my love urges me to do, I should implore 
you to marry me. I should be the happiest man in the world 
if you said ‘yes.’ But what about ten years later? What of 
our future? I have seen such a lot of it.” 

He was resting on his elbows now, on the green bank, and 
looking up at Evangeline as he spoke of ruined careers, and 
of all that follows after. 

“We should have children — they would require education. 
I couldn’t specialize; I should have to become a partner with 
my father, or buy a small practice, and drudge along, like all 


WITH OTHER EYES 


45 


the other poor doctors of whom no one ever hears. And you’d 
hate it. It would be beastly. Even if you would risk it, it 
would be rottenly selfish of me to ask you. I know what it 
means in England — you don’t.” 

While he was speaking Evangeline’s heart was crying out, 
“I know what true love means! It never thinks of all that. 
We could just marry and struggle together and love together 
and be happy together and suffer together. Love doesn’t cal- 
culate and weigh the cost of things, not true love, not the 
love of Launcelot for the Queen, not the love I want.” 

All this she knew, and yet she loved him dearly. His very 
faults only added a zest to her feelings for him. She loved 
his crisp bright hair, his clean athletic limbs. She longed 
to take his bowed head in her arms and kiss the back of his 
neck a hundred thousand times. 

Of course her pride ought to have been hurt; of course she 
ought to have assumed a dignity and scorn. But she was 
human and loving and young, and before the man she loved 
she was unashamed. 

“I think I could have been happy with you anywhere, and 
in quite poor circumstances,” she said, “because I like rather 
simple things. The happiest couples I know are not the 
richest. But I am glad you told me all this, and I can see it 
from your point of view.” She put her hand on his shoulder. 
“You’ve made me suffer, Allan — that can’t be helped. I’ve 
been foolish, but I don’t wish that it had all not happened.” 

A tremor ran through her body. Allan felt it. Her senses 
were again enjoying his caresses. 

Allan sat upright. He saw her fingers glide tenderly over 
her throat; he knew that in her thoughts he was kissing her 
again, that her senses were responding. His head fell amongst 
the cushion of flowers. 

“What I am losing!” he groaned. “Is it worth it? O 
God, is it worth it?” 

Evangeline went on as if she had not heard him. “I 
shall suffer, Allan — things will never be the same again.” 
She looked round. “In no other spring will the buttercups 
be so golden, the maythom so sweet. But I shall get over 
it — you know how a woman gets over almost everything, except 
death. And when I have got over it, I suppose I shall marry 


46 


WITH OTHER EYES 


someone, xor the same reasons as you will marry. And when 
I am mother’s age, I shall talk about my first love-affair quite 
unemotionally, and say how wise you were and what a fool I 
was, and how it really was all the fault of romantic Glaston- 
bury, dear King Arthur’s Glastonbury.” 

Evangeline was looking into the valley below; it was touched 
by the setting sun. 

“Don’t grow hard,” he said. “Don’t let my beastliness 
hurt you ! I should hate to think that I’d injured you, changed 
your ripping nature.” 

“No, you mustn’t be allowed to think anything unpleasant,” 
she said, half tenderly, half bitterly. “That would be un- 
comfortable, and that is just what the man I love doesn’t 
like. He’s afraid that things might prove uncomfortable and 
irksome when his wife was no longer fresh and young, and 
so on and so forth — isn’t that it?” She sprang to her feet. 
“Come along,” she said, “let us go home. Our little experience 
has taught us both some wisdom. The world isn’t all made up 
of Sir Galahads and Sir Launcelots, and no one now really 
looks or cares for the Holy Grail. In England I think there 
is even less idealism than in Grand Pre; there, I do believe, 
there is still a sprinkling of people who are searching the whole 
world through for the sacred chalice, for the vision wonderful.” 

Allan rose to his feet more slowly. 

“You are a brick,” he said again, “and please don’t go on 
thinking of what a cur I’ve been until you grow to hate me. 
I’ve tried not to lose my head.” 

“But why do you care?” she said. “What I think of you 
won’t matter. Ten days from now you will have drowned 
your memory of me in the study of microbes and germs, you’ll 
forget and be nicely comfortable again.” 

“I do care,” he said. “I want you to love me always, and 
whenever you think of me to long for me — yes, long for me 
horribly! Oh, Evangeline, how difficult life is!” 

The human truthfulness of his answer pleased her, in spite 
of its selfishness. If he had said that he wanted her to forget 
him and be happy with someone else, more worthy of her than 
he was, the sex in her would have been angered and insulted. 
Yet she turned her dark head away from him; her tear-blinded 
eyes were more than he deserved. 


47 


WITH OTHER EYES 

“In love a woman’s part is to be generous,” she said. “I 
shan’t easily manage to forget you — you can rest assured of that. 
I shall be a different person before I love again. I shall have 
learned to see with other eyes.” 

“Evangeline I” 

She swung round. “I’m not ashamed of loving you. You 
have had the spring-time of my love, all the freshness of its 
awakening. The man who gets my summer will not get what I 
could have given you. That is to be wasted.” 

She held out her hands. “Come, let us leave all this behind 
us — I mean, live it down. If you’ve taken the gayest colours 
out of my paint-box, there are still the subtle half-tones and 
softer tints left.” 

“I don’t want anyone to have even those, or anything of you,” 
he growled; his tones were full of envy. 

“You would like to kill me right away if you could, so that 
no one should ever have me at all — isn’t that it? You don’t 
quite want me yourself, but you hate the idea of anyone else 
owning me! Oh, man, man, what a male thing you are!” 

“Yes,” he said, “I could bear it if I thought that no one else 
could have you — that’s what drives half of mankind into matri- 
mony.” 

“You would like to think of me languishing as an old maid, 
or dying of vapours like Early Victorian heroines, because I 
can’t marry you! Well, I won’t. The girls from Grand Pre 
don’t do that sort of thing nowadays. But I believe that if I 
stayed long enough in Glastonbury I might fade away and die 
like the lily-maid of Astolat! It’s a terribly romantic atmos- 
phere — I expect it’s really affected even you subconsciously.” 
Allan heard a quality in her laugh which he knew that his 
behaviour had brought into it. “You really are the essence 
of English egotism,” she said. “I wonder why I love you? Or 
am I only in love with love, because I am living in Glastonbury? 
I’ve been reading and thinking so much about these romantic 
knights, you see, that I’m just in a state to catch the fever badly. 
What a curious time it was! Every lady, married or unmarried, 
seemed to have her own particular knight, who devoted himself 
to her and was her lover. Her husband seemed to be proud of 
it. Love, love, love and romantic chivalry, rang through the 
world, didn’t they? The Queen really was a very disreputable 


48 


WITH OTHER EYES 


person, and Sir Launcelot a treacherous friend, so moderns 
would think. But in those days Love seemed to triumph over 
everything, and the self same knights who were devoting their 
lives to searching for the Holy Grail were making love to their 
friends’ wives and hosts’ daughters all the time. Oh, but it 
was lovely, lovely !” she cried. “I think I could love like that, 
but where am I to find a Sir Launcelot?” 

Every time Evangeline expressed or spoke of her love, with 
the prettiest frankness, it lashed Allan to scorn of himself. Her 
expression of her love was clearly and unmistakably passionate. 
Her eyes made a mock of her lightness of speech and tortured 
her cautious lover. What he was relinquishing goaded him 
beyond endurance. With chastity and dignity, she was holding 
out a brimming cup; her eyes spoke tenderly of the gift in her 
hands. It was to be loved and reverenced, reverenced because 
it was Love, and loved because it was the wine of her woman- 
hood. She was as simple in her love as a primitive woman, in 
spite of her modernly trained mind. To Evangeline love was 
a thing as transparent and beautiful as a crystal bowl. Life 
had taught her the broad facts of evil, but to her sin had nothing 
whatever to do with the crystal bowl of love. Her virginal 
passions knew nothing of the mixed qualities of a man’s love 
for a woman. In telling Allan of her love for him, she was 
speaking with a mind as innocent of all the forces that were 
working in her as a child is innocent of the vows his godfathers 
make for him at his baptism. 

Her hands had been grasped again by his, but only for one 
moment. He dropped them as though her soft palms and 
youthful fingers caused him an unbearable agony. 

“If things could only stay as they are!” he said. “If I could 
marry you and still go on working just the same, and you 
never get any older, and I could make a name and we could 
enjoy life in a charming way, a way worthy of you! Just you 
and me! But life isn’t like that — oh, I’ve seen it tried!” he 
said angrily. “I’ve seen ripping girls marry brilliant young 
students just when they have been embarking on a career, and 
none of them have done anything worth speaking about. They 
have had to knuckle under and make a living somehow to keep 
the home and children. The ripping girls in a year or two look 
tired and ordinary. I’ve vowed a thousand times that I wouldn’t 


WITH OTHER EYES 49 

marry, both for the girl’s sake and my own. It’s a rotten 
business.” 

“You can’t both eat your cake and keep it.” 

Evangeline spoke as if from an impersonal point of view. He 
knew, not by what she said, but by her manner, that now that 
he had told her quite frankly his opinions on matrimony, she 
would never consent to marry him, even if he implored her. 

“I can’t both eat it and keep it,” he said, “I know that.” 
His eyes devoured her. “But I needn’t eat it up all in one 
bite.” 

“The bite is passion?” 

“Yes,” he said, “a delicious bite, but an unwise one for a 
poor doctor with brains and ambition and no capital.” 

“Then here endeth the first lesson,” Evangeline said, with 
mock hilarity. “Men are so afraid of eating a delicious cake 
in case it will spoil their dinner; foolish women think a bite 
in the mouth is worth two in the larder. If I resist cake at 
tea-time, there’s almost certain to be re-chauffed mutton at din- 
ner, or something equally obnoxious.” 

“Damn!” he said, half aloud. “Don’t be flippant!” 

“If I am heartbroken, I don’t mean to show it. The Chalice 
Well Hostel might forget ‘The Glory of God in the Service of 
Life’ if I did. I don’t want to be their subject for a drama. 
We’ve been sentimental long enough. I hope the re-chauffed 
mutton will be worth a dozen strawberry-shortbread cakes at tea. 
I’m going home right away.” 

She crossed the stile with an ease and swiftness that drove 
everything from his mind except the pleasure which he derived 
from her beautiful limbs and her free stride. 

“Come along,” she said, “let’s drown dull care in a good 
run. If thoughts are things, we’ll clear the air by action.” 

Her last words were lost on Allan, who had his work well 
cut out in his determination to overtake her. Down the hill 
they ran side by side, leaving behind them the sleeping daisies 
and the bruised veronicas on the hillside. Their feet ripped 
through the long grass and the taller buttercups of the meadows 
as they sped along. Homing rooks were cawing over their 
heads; farm-ducks were waddling in long white lines to their 
night-quarters. 

Still Evangeline ran, an Atalanta, with the freshness of youth 


50 


WITH OTHER EYES 


that had known the companionship of fleet-footed Indians in 
the far-off valley of Grand Pre. 

By the time the station was reached their more prosaic sur- 
roundings prevented any return to unwise sentimentalizing over 
the scenery, or the Arthurian legends bound up in it. Evan- 
geline, with a woman’s swiftness of thought and adaptability, 
was now apparently in quite a different mood. She was charm- 
ing and almost affectionate in her manner. Allan might really 
have been confiding in her his love for another woman. She 
talked naturally and interestedly about his work, and there was 
no hint, even in her eyes, that the subject was the rock upon 
which their frail bark had been wrecked. 

Allan felt a curious resentment; he almost wondered if she 
had any real depth of feeling at all. He noticed that most of 
the men in the train looked at her with admiring eyes, and for 
so doing he could have thrown his stick at them. Evangeline 
was vital and glowing, and really far more beautiful than he had 
been aware of, until she was lost to him. 

Her vitality, mingled with a certain languor when at ease, a 
characteristic quality of her beauty, made her a magnet for 
all eyes. Conflicting elements were deliciously mixed up in her. 
The women looked at her as well as the men. 

Allan was resentful, infuriated. She was speaking confi- 
dently to a gipsy woman, who wore a string of red beads round 
her neck; her sunburnt brown hair was wrapped round her head 
in tight, heavy plaits. Evangeline knew how to win sympathy 
with her engaging smile; it was a smile peculiarly her own. 
She was trying it on the woman now, and it was having its 
effect. The gipsy was telling her what she wanted to know — 
where she lived and how Evangeline could reach her caravan. 
Evangeline always talked to everyone and anyone in tramcars 
or on a journey by train. Allan knew that, and yet he felt a 
furious jealousy of the woman and of everyone in the carriage 
who looked at her. 

As he watched her, he saw that even already she was drifting 
away from him. She was reconstructing her mental outlook. 
He knew it. She was saying, “This is the beginning of new 
things, I have to start again.” 

Their eyes met. A subtle smile played over her curling lips, 
those soft lips that he would never kiss again. 


WITH OTHER EYES 


51 


He looked and felt glum, while she was full of courage. He 
was the lovesick boy; she was the brave young philosopher, who 
had accepted the disillusionment of her first fallen idol. 

Evangeline was buying a kettle-holder from the gipsy, and 
some lace from her basket, which held buttons and tapes as 
well. All her interest seemed to be centred on its contents. 
The woman, with characteristic sympathy for youthful beauty 
and vitality, was responding to Evangeline’s interest in her 
personal affairs. 

Allan had to tell her that they had arrived at the station, that 
it was time to get out of the train. She had been very well aware 
that his ultra-English soul and conventional training had re- 
sented her intimacy with the gipsy. 

At their parting she was very sweet, so sweet that he again 
almost lost his head. But there was a new pride in her attitude 
towards him, and just a little touch of pity. She had discovered 
the true value of the metal of which he was made. 

“We shan’t see each other again,” she said, when he was 
turning away from the door of Chalice Well. “I am going to 
take mother over to the Quantocks for a week, so this must be 
our good-bye.” 

He knew what she meant. He had nothing to say. 

“Look,” she said, “I bought two kettle-holders — one for you 
and one for me, for our lonely bachelor homes. You will have 
to boil your own kettle and burn your fingers, so I have provided 
you with a nice thick holder. Now don’t lose it.” As she 
spoke, she pushed it into his pocket. “When you are using it 
and making your tea, think of Evangeline using hers. You see, 
being Evangeline, I can’t very well help my foolish sentiment, 
can I?” 

“Damn!” he said. “I wish you would be serious.” 

“Do you know you have said ‘damn’ very often this evening? 
Is that how you feel?” 

“Yes, it is,” he said, “just how I feel, and I don’t believe you 
feel any way at all.” 

For answer Evangeline turned swiftly round and rang the 
bell. The door was opened almost instantly. 

“Good-bye,” she said, without turning her face towards him. 
“I wonder what worse things than ‘damn’ you would have said 
when you ate your re-chauffed mutton?” 


52 WITH OTHER EYES 

“Good-night,” he said. “Don’t be so cruel! Girls have no 
hearts.” 

The door was almost closed; she had stepped inside it. She 
opened it just a very little, as if on an afterthought, and through 
the aperture she thrust her nose and mouth and two tender 
blue eyes. 

Allan sprang forward and bent his head. Their lips met. 
In one long kiss Allan learnt that his heaven while he was on 
earth was in the woman whom he was renouncing. 

Perhaps the very human desire for revenge had prompted 
Evangeline to let him know something of her sweetness, to leave 
with him for ever the memory of’ an exquisite pain. 

Allan knew that no woman, unless she had love to give with 
it, could have kissed him as Evangeline had done. 

He thrust the weight of his body against the door. It must 
open, he must again hold her in his arms, for she was all his — 
her lips had spoken it. 

But Evangeline was bom of Eve, a true woman, with a 
woman’s knowledge of what a kiss can provoke. Her foot had 
been pressed against the door ; with the first movement of Allan’s 
body she thrust all her weight against it; like a flash her glow- 
ing face had been withdrawn. The temptress stood behind 
closed doors ; the heavy bar was dropped in its socket. 

Something in Allan, even while he cursed her, thanked God 
for the timely action. All else of him cried out with youthful 
hunger and fierceness for the girl who had saved him from 
herself. 


CHAPTER IV 


The next afternoon, when Evangeline and her mother were 
seated under the north doorway arch of St. Mary’s chapel in 
the Abbey ruins, an interesting conversation took place, which 
strangely affected the future of their lives. They had been 
leisurely studying the second recessed order of the arch, in which 
are representations of the Nativity, the visit of the Magi and the 
Flight into Egypt. The chapel of St. Mary is one of the most 
beautiful relics of mediaeval architecture of the transitional 
stage. It is a very sacred spot, commemorating in its arrested 
decay a still older building, the original church, which was 
built of wood and wattle. 

The beautiful north door fascinated Evangeline. Its gracious 
lines appealed to her more strongly than the sterner, purer ex- 
amples of Norman architecture which she had seen at Win- 
chester. She had sat for many hours during the bright spring 
days on the stone steps under the shelter of its arch. 

This afternoon the ruins and the grounds which surround 
them looked more than usually beautiful. There were no 
visitors “doing” the Abbey, and the clear high sky was of a 
deep blue. The old gardener who kept the grounds in order 
was mowing the green lawns; the sound of his machine came 
graciously to their ears. 

“Mamma, dearest, in all the world I don’t think there could 
be anything more typically English than all this, do you?” 

Evangeline’s eyes were gazing upon the sunlit scene — the 
stately ruins, the green lawns, the heavy trees. Not a sound 
disturbed them but the even noise of the mower, which was 
scattering small white daisies and grass-like green chaff be- 
fore it. 

“No, dear, I think not.” 

There was a pause. Conversation between them had lacked 
much of its usual spontaneity. Both mother and daughter knew 
that something had to be explained and told before they could 

53 


54 


WITH OTHER EYES 


meet mind to mind. Mrs. Sarsfield never hurried Evangeline, 
and it was from Evangeline that the something had to come. 
She had her own little wonders and half-acknowledged hopes in 
her heart, but they had nothing to do with Evangeline’s mood. 
They must remain unacknowledged, even by herself. 

“It is very English, Eve,” she said again. She wanted to 
make her child speak. Evangeline had so many moods. 

“Mamma, it is lovelier than ever to-day, but would you 
mind leaving it?” 

“Leave it now? Do you mean go back to tea?” They had 
brought their tea-basket with them. 

“No, no.” Evangeline forced a laugh. Something told her 
that her mother had not thought that she had meant that. 
“Leave Glastonbury, I mean — go to London.” 

“To London, dear heart, in June?” 

“I had a letter this morning from Mrs. Hemingway. . . .” 
She paused. 

“Yes; what about her?” 

Mrs. Hemingway was a young widow with whom they had 
crossed the Atlantic. 

“She says that her boarding-house will be ready quite soon, 
and I think we could help her by going to it.” 

“By going now, Eve?” Mrs. Sarsfield’s voice was lifeless as 
well as gentle. Her daughter heard the new note in it. 

“Would you mind leaving Glastonbury so very much, 
mamma?” 

“No, no, dear, of course not. Anything you like, will please 
me. 

“Don’t say that, mamma,” Evangeline said quickly, “it makes 
me uncomfortable. But would you mind? I think we have 
exhausted the Chalice Well Hostel and the beauties of the 
locality, and discovered all there is to know about our Sarsfield 
ancestry. I feel like moving on.” 

“Then we will, dear heart. I am in Europe entirely for your 
sake, your pleasure. I came to Glastonbury at your suggestion.” 

“Mamma, am I spoilt?” 

“No, dear, you are all I could wish for.” She looked at the 
girl with loving eyes. “You are my world, Eve — for all these 
years you have filled it.” 

“Then I want to move on,” Evangeline said. She stopped 


55 


WITH OTHER EYES 

abruptly. “Listen to that thrush cracking his snail-shells be- 
hind our very backs! Isn’t his satisfaction deliciously enviable? 
I found a little ashpit of his rubbish this morning. Saucy 
fellow, cocking your eye at me ! Where’s your wife?” 

Mrs. Sarsfield did not listen to the bird or look at it. She was 
wondering how much or how little she was to hear at that 
moment of Evangeline’s reason for wishing to leave Glastonbury 
so suddenly, and of her feelings for Allan Fairclough. Her 
girl had to be handled very carefully; she had always to wait 
patiently for confidences. 

As Evangeline now appeared lost in contemplation of the 
quickly-moving clouds overhead, Mrs. Sarsfield bravely shot 
an arrow from her bow. 

“Eve,” she said, “your desire to leave the hostel seems to fit 
in rather nicely with an invitation I had this morning.” 

Evangeline’s bright eyes left their contemplation of the clouds; 
they were now gazing in astonishment at her mother. The 
transparent little woman generally confided the contents of all 
her letters to her daughter directly they were read, just as her 
girl’s advice was consulted about her answers to them. 

“Curiously enough,” continued Mrs. Sarsfield, “I, too, had 
an invitation from one of our shipboard acquaintances. Mrs. 
McArthur has asked us to go and visit her. She has taken a 
beautiful old house in Wales — Wales is not so very far from 
here, is it?” Evangeline smiled at her mother’s learning. “She 
wants to have a house-warming. She is inviting Mrs. Heming- 
way and some others.” The words were poured out nervously; 
it had been rather a daring thing to withhold the news of this 
invitation from her child for all these hours. 

Evangeline remained silent. 

“Would you like to' go, Eve? Is Llanelly very far from 
here?” 

Evangeline rose from her seat. “Yes, little mamma, I should 
like to go.” She stretched out her arms. “I think I should like 
to go, but you . . . ?” She looked down at her mother and 

searched her gentle face for her answer. “Why didn’t you tell 
me before, mamma?” 

There was a pause, but still Evangeline kept her eyes on the 
Dresden-china face of the tiny woman at her feet. 

“Why, mamma? Tell me, why didn’t you?” Evangeline 


56 


WITH OTHER EYES 


wondered if the doctor had had anything to do with her mother’s 
holding back of the news. 

“Because, dear heart . . . well, because I thought you 
were very happy here. I thought the invitation might spoil 
things. ... I mean . . .” she hesitated nervously, 

“. . . I was going to tell you later on.” 

Evangeline stooped down and lifted her mother from the 
ground ; she took her right into her young arms. When she was 
there, lying like a child, she hugged her vehemently. 

“You thought there was something between Allan Fairclough 
and myself, didn’t you? You thought you would wait until 
he had gone away, that when he had gone I should tell you 
that I had promised to marry him?” The words seemed to 
choke the girl; suddenly she stopped her gay talk and gazed into 
her mother’s eyes. Finding her surmise right, she said, “Bless 
you, little mamma! Bless your dear thoughtfulness!” 

“Yes, you’re right. I hoped so, I do still hope so. And yet 
you want to leave Glastonbury? Is it because he’s going 
away?” 

Evangeline sat down again, under the door-lintel of St. Mary’s 
Chapel, just where she had been sitting before their conversation 
started. Her mother was now on her lap. Evangeline’s heart 
was throbbing ; the little woman felt it. By such tokens did she 
know her daughter. 

“Little mamma,” Evangeline said, “I want to leave Glaston- 
bury because that holiday flirtation is at an end.” The tones 
of her voice made her mother cry out. 

“Childee! Childee!” she said, as if her daughter was a baby 
again and in her lap. 

“No, no, mamma — it’s all right. Englishmen often flirt like 
that. We ought to have known it. Flirting and riding away 
is an English form of sport. No other nation rightly under- 
stands the meaning of the word flirt.” 

“He seemed so nice, so honourable! His father is devoted 
to him.” 

“I suppose he is — and all’s fair in love and war, we are told, 
even if I’d been a sentimental fool and broken my heart over 
him.” 

Mrs. Sarsfield longed for a fuller explanation, but it was not 
to be. Evangeline was suffering cruelly. She knew that, but 


WITH OTHER EYES 


57 


whether from wounded pride or from love she could not find 
out. Evangeline, she knew, was as proud as she was romantic. 
She could never bring herself to speak of her wounded woman- 
hood, even to her beloved armful. She hugged its softness 
silently and said with dignity: 

“I will tell you lots more some day, mamma, but not now. 
Now I want to go away and forget. Allan and I have talked 
it all over; we understand each other. You might blame him 
if I told you all he said.” 

“You must judge, Evangeline. You have always managed 
your own affairs.” 

“And yours, beloved mamma? But am I going to cruelly 
mismanage yours now, by going away? Am I going to spoil 
things for you?” 

Their eyes met. Evangeline read in the delicate shrinking 
of her mother’s expression an imploring request that no allusion 
should be made to her friendship with the Doctor. Young love 
has all the world’s sympathy, old love its laughter. 

“I hope not,” Evangeline said aloud, while in her heart she 
said, “Thank goodness father and son are poles apart! The 
dear Doctor is appallingly sentimental.” 

“I wish you could have cared for Bliss,” her mother said, 
rather timidly. “He is so devoted, so constant.” 

“Now, mamma, that also is wiped off the slate, and I believe 
it is his constancy that’s done it — women are such unreasonable 
things. When they get complete constancy it bores them, it 
becomes a yoke. They try to stretch it to breaking-point. When 
they haven’t got it they grumble and make themselves miserable 
for the lack of it.” 

Mrs. Sarsfield, who was nothing if she was not feminine, 
said, “Don’t you think, Eve, that it is our ambition and delight 
to make the inconstant constant? That is why good women so 
often marry really worthless and bad men — they want to be the 
woman for whose love that bad man will reform and remain 
constant.” 

“Dear mamma, what your femininity doesn’t know about our 
foolishness and men’s feelings for us isn’t worth knowing! You 
never learnt it — it must have been bom in you ! It’s like this, 
you see — when I am married, I want someone to look after me; 
I should have to look after Bliss for the rest of my life. To be 


58 


WITH OTHER EYES 


his ideal woman is delightful.” She smiled. “To be his wife 
would be maddening.” 

“But he is so much loved at home; all his family adore him. 
How do you know it would be maddening to live with him?” 

“That’s just it — I don’t know, I only think. And there is* 
no way of finding out until you try. His family are so proud 
of him that I should want to shake him, bang him about, and 
wake him up. It would be a horrible failure, and you do want 
my marriage to be a permanency, don’t you, mamma?” Evan- 
geline spoke impersonally. 

“Of course, Eve!” Her mother blushed. She always did 
blush furiously when Evangeline spoke like that; she never got 
used to it. She could never even peep at the subjects which her 
daughter stared straight in the face. 

“That’s why I’m not taking any risks. I am too happy with 
you to want to change a state of certainty for one of uncertainty 
and probable boredom. Is it wise of you to want me to, 
mamma?” 

“But why need it be boredom? In Grand Pre you always 
found great pleasure in Bliss’ society. There is no one, I am 
sure, with whom you have more in common, so far as I can see.” 

“Has ‘having things in common’ anything to do with love? 
Do you honestly think so, mamma?” 

Mrs. Sarsfield looked guilty; her eyes dropped beneath the 
question in Evangeline’s. 

“If there are no Sir Launcelots or Sir Tristrams to be found 
in this Vale of Avalon, or in all England, I’m going to be 
practical and marry solid money, heaps and heaps of money. 
It’s the only thing that’s real. And love is the only thing it 
can’t buy, I suppose, because it’s unreal.” 

“Money can’t buy health, Evangeline.” 

“It can make bad health better, mamma, and besides, I’ve an 
abundance of that precious commodity.” She spoke mockingly. 
“I think I ought to fetch a good price in America, where money 
isn’t scarce. In England, Colonials without dollars don’t marry 
dukes, and millionaires are scarce. The U. S. A.’s the place to 
sell your soul.” 

“You want so much, Evangeline!” 

“Much money, certainly! If I marry for money, it’s going 
to be for lots and lots, enough to make it worth while. It’s 


WITH OTHER EYES 59 

going to weigh down my soul with a bang — no swinging of the 
scales for me.” 

“I didn’t mean money. You are not really worldly, you are 
only talking to amuse yourself.” 

“I crossed a stile in life’s journey yesterday, mamma. It was 
a very, very high one. I could scarcely get over it, but I did. 
The modem girl has no hoops, you see, and no Early Victorian 
modesty. I just picked up my skirts, vaulted it, and flew down 
the hill. I was a little breathless, certainly, at the bottom, but 
. . . but . . she paused and then went on “. . . I 

suppose there will be plenty more stiles and rivers to cross 
before I reach the Jordan. Probably the first is the most 
difficult.” 

“Then you would like me to accept Mrs. McArthur’s invi- 
tation?” Mrs. Sarsfield was so well brought up that she knew 
how to accept her girl’s confidences. They were to be received 
in silence. 

Evangeline’s feminine mind instantly reviewed her wardrobe. 
Was it sufficiently up-to-date for a country-house visit? Was 
her mother’s ? 

Apparently they were, for she said unhesitatingly and grate- 
fully, “I should love to go, mamma, if you don’t mind.” 

“Then I’ll write and accept. The letter can go by the last 
post.” 

“Let us meander for a bit,” Evangeline said. “When has 
she asked us for?” She put her mother off her lap. 

They picked up their tea-basket, with which they had finished, 
and linking arms, they entered St. Mary’s Chapel — or, as it is 
more familiarly called, St. Joseph’s Chapel. 

Neither mother nor daughter spoke while they walked through 
the vast stretch of England’s first Christian settlement, which 
holds in its beauty legends for the religious and passion for the 
romantic. Subconsciously their feet carried them from one 
point to another of the Abbey church and its various chapels. 

When they reached King Arthur’s reputed tomb, under the 
arch in a long wall, they stopped, and Evangeline took the 
bunch of English wild violets which she was wearing at her 
waist and laid it on the stone. She had first raised the flowers 
to her face and smelt them. 


60 


WITH OTHER EYES 

“Too pure,” she said, “even for scent. They are Sir Gala- 
had’s flowers. The King should have sweet white briar.” 

“And Sir Launcelot,” her mother asked, “what flowers are 
for him?” 

“Oh, passion-flowers,” she said, “and blood-red roses, and 
all the flowers that have love in their scents. Wild flowers are 
for children, and for the absolutely pure in heart. The scent 
of a flower is its love, mamma! — the quality of its passion. I 
imagine that is why the old monks generally illustrated their 
missals and Hours of the Virgin with small field flowers, 
sprinkled them with daisies and buttercups, flowers which speak 
of nothing stronger than the breath of spring, whose beauty is 
virginal.” 

They fell into silence again. Evangeline’s modem, direct 
mind was facing facts and circumstances without blinking at 
them. She was saying to herself over and over again: “Allan 
doesn’t know what love means. Or was it just that I haven’t 
the power to make him feel it? Have I to accept that plain, 
unvarnished fact! His profession and career come before me 
and everything else. He could never, never have been a Sir 
Launcelot, risking all and forswearing all for his Queen.” 

Her mother, according to her upbringing and in keeping with 
her gentle nature, was drawing back and physically shying at 
the pictures which would construct themselves before her modest 
eyes, of her own farewell with the Doctor — his astonishment 
and — she blushed inwardly at the thought — his sorrow, To 
appear to Evangeline as though she had not been thinking about 
herself and her own feelings, or even about leaving Glastonbury, 
she hazarded a remark. 

“Your Sir Launcelot, Eve, was not really a very nice or 
honourable knight. Personally, I think too much sentiment 
has been expended on the Queen, and too much has been for- 
given Sir Launcelot. She was a false wife and a very bad 
example to her maids-in-waiting. She was very unfaithful to 
King Arthur.” 

Evangeline laughed wholeheartedly. “She certainly was all 
that, dearest, if Geoffrey of Monmouth wrote the truth, and 
a very bad example to her court.” Evangeline laughed again. 
“Oh, but it was a glorious age ! Chivalry was the only example 


WITH OTHER EYES 


61 


that mattered, and knight-erranting. As a lover, you must 
admit, mamma, that Sir Launcelot was adorable!” 

“The lover of his Queen, Eve, who was the wife of his King, 
the King who had made him a knight, the man to whom he owed 
all his greatness of position?” 

“I know, mamma. And not only that, but he had dedicated 
his life to the search for the Holy Grail the whole world over — 
for so we are told — which, I suppose, really meant trying to 
live a life pure enough in every way to be worthy of seeing the 
Spirit of the Holy Ghost, or whatever the sacred chalice con- 
tained. Through the purifying of the flesh the knights were to 
find the lost Sangreal — still, in spite of all that, Sir Launcelot 
was the Queen’s lover, and when the King was absent he was 
ever beside her — Sir Launcelot is a perfect example of the 
mystic and the passionate lover rolled in one.” 

“Well, dear, that’s what I say. It was not true romance, not 
true love.” Mrs. Sarsfield spoke a little diffidently. She knew 
that she was not capable of arguing with Evangeline, and yet 
in her own way she had very strong views and knew what she 
meant. To her, Sir Tauncelot’s love was mere passion, but her 
modesty forbade her using the word. 

“Oh, but it was love!” Evangeline cried. “And, after all, 
whose love is quite pure, as you express it? What would it be 
worth if it was? A thing fit for a child, a mere scentless wild 
flower. You might as well say that about the love of Paolo and 
Francesca.” 

“I don’t know about their love, Evangeline,” her mother 
spoke simply, “and until I came here all I knew about the love 
of Sir Launcelot for the Queen, or any of the Knights of King 
Arthur, I learnt from Tennyson’s poems. He makes them so 
. . — she paused — “. . . what shall I say? — so refined, 
so gentlemanly, one can’t but admire them. Mallory and all 
these other old chroniclers whom you have been reading tell 
the stories quite differently. They seem to think thjat it was a 
very grand thing to be false to your King and love other men’s 
wives, so long as you were physically brave and a bold lover.” 

“You are delicious, mamma. You allow nothing for the age 
of Mallory or King Arthur! You forget that, when King 
Arthur’s Knights were searching the world over for the Holy 
Grail — the sacred dish which, one legend says, held the blood 


62 


WITH OTHER EYES 

of our Lord, and another, the wine which was drunk at the 
Last Supper, and which was invisible to all eyes but those of the 
pure in heart — and giving up their lives to this ideal, the rest 
of society was perfectly awful.” 

Womanlike, Evangeline was absolutely forgetful of her own 
condemnation of the Queen and Sir Launcelot to Allan only 
the night before. To defend them now suited her mood, her 
own disturbed passions. 

“Sir Launcelot may to you seem treacherous and immoral, 
mamma, but he was the type of a constant, chivalrous lover and 
knight. All the world over, there isn’t a woman living who 
wouldn’t sell her soul for a Sir Launcelot.” 

“Oh, Evangeline!” 

“Mamma, dearest!” 

“How can you say so?” 

“Because it’s true. The women who think they would not, 
are not speaking the truth, or they have never met their Sir 
Launcelot. Virtue is merely a condition of temptation. If the 
conditions are favourable to virtue, we resist, and we are called 
virtuous; if they are unfavourable, we succumb. The lack of a 
Sir Launcelot is accountable for many so-called virtuous women 
and wives. Every woman longs or has longed to resist, or rather, 
to succumb to, a Sir Launcelot. But it is not the succumbing 
that would be difficult — it is the finding of a Sir Launcelot 
worth succumbing to. Sir Launcelots do not grow on black- 
berry trees, nor yet on the miraculous thorn of Glastonbury.” 

“Oh, Eve!” 

“Oh, mamma!” 

“I don’t think you believe in these theories. I hope not!” 

“One never knows what one believes in — certainly not the 
half of what one says. But if I could find a Sir Launcelot who 
would dedicate his life to me as Sir Launcelot did to the Queen, 
I have my doubts about my virtue — or any other woman’s.” 

As Evangeline stopped speaking, they came abruptly face to 
face with the Doctor and Allan Fairclough. Evangeline saw 
that her words had reached their ears and, with her quick wits, 
righted the situation as best she could. 

“Mamma and I have been having an argument about the 
right of Sir Launcelot to the admiration and sentiment which 
has been woven round his name. Mamma’s ideal of him has 


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63 


sadly fallen since she has read Mallory and the Chronicles of 
Geoffrey of Monmouth. Tennyson is so much more proper — 
more gentlemanly, as she calls it. I insist that according to the 
morals and ideals of the age, Sir Launcelot was a perfect lover 
and knight.” 

A gleam of humour lit up the Doctor’s eyes. “He certainly 
was a brave lover — I agree with you. But I rather think the 
Queen was a jealous hussy. And as for the King !. Well, mum’s 
the word in Avalon, but he was a little bit too much of a St. 
Joseph for my taste!” 

Evangeline’s mother lost the meaning of his remark. Her 
daughter did not, and her spirit agreed with the doctor’s views, 
even while she said, “But it was the accepted thing in those days. 
Every beautiful lady had a brave knight; she was allowed a 
husband and a lover, if the lover was absolutely faithful to her 
and to her alone. The King knew that this was the right of 
every beautiful woman, and as Sir Launcelot was the finest and 
the bravest knight of his age, it was fitting that he and none other 
should be the Queen’s lover. Arthur was wise in his genera- 
tion.” 

“As the devil’s advocate, you are too able,” the Doctor said. 
“I have not sufficient Arthurian knowledge to contest the case. 
What do you say, Allan?” 

Evangeline had done no more than smile a callous, friendly 
smile to the young man. 

“What do I think?” Allan spoke quickly, without looking 
at Evangeline. “Oh, I think that Sir Launcelot was a fool to 
prefer and stick to the jealous Queen, when the charming young 
Elaine was throwing herself into his arms. But, honestly, I 
think all this Arthurian ‘cult’ is beyond me.” He turned to 
go. “So I will leave you now, dad — I’ve heaps of things to 
attend to.” 

Without more words and with a polite raising of his hat to 
Evangeline and her mother, he hurriedly left them. He looked 
distinctly embarrassed. 

Evangeline resented his sudden appearance. Her farewell 
for ever had been the kiss which she had given him in a moment 
of passion, through the half-closed door of the hostel. She dis : 
liked seeing him again and speaking to him in this prosaic 
manner. It made the kiss seem unnecessary, almost vulgar. 


64 


WITH OTHER EYES 


The Doctor’s words explained his own and his son’s sudden 
appearance. Allan had received a letter which necessitated his 
leaving Glastonbury even earlier than he had expected — that 
very night, at ten o’clock. The Doctor was going to accompany 
him and remain one night in London, and therefore he would 
not be able to keep his promise to drive Evangeline’s mother 
to Sharpham the next day. Evangeline and Allan had paid a 
visit to Sharpham, which, Evangeline had discovered, was the 
birthplace of Tom Jones. The Manor House of Sharpham 
Park, in the old days, belonged to Glastonbury Abbey. 

When the Doctor had explained this, Evangeline impetuously 
strode on ahead, tea-basket in hand. She called back to her 
mother: 

“Mamma, I am going to leave the basket at the hostel and 
climb the Tor — there ought to be a glorious view this evening.” 

Evangeline enjoyed playing up to her mother’s little court- 
ship. She did not stop to think how it was going to end, or 
how she wished it to end. The pretty romance of it was suffi- 
cient for the day. It was so delightful for her dear, gentle 
mamma to be a real woman again, to be enjoying the affectionate 
devotion of a big man, who was a very lovable mixture of a 
reserved scholar and frank schoolboy. 

Evangeline, with long strides, soon left them far behind, for 
the Doctor had been showing her mother some interesting geo- 
logical formation in a piece of limestone which he had turned 
over with his walking-stick; they had also stopped to examine 
the most lately-excavated portion of the ruins — the ash-heap 
which had probably been thrown out of the monks’ kitchen, to 
judge by the oyster-shells and bones which had been turned up 
in it, and which were now lying exposed to the bright spring 
sunshine. Nothing is too humble for an excavator to examine; 
the kitchen ash-pit was proving a gold-mine. 

The Doctor picked up an oyster-shell which shone with pe- 
culiar brilliancy and handed it to his companion. 

She took it from him and smiled. “As a memento of the 
abbey,” she said, “I will keep it — it is so bright and pretty.” 

“A very typical memento, probably. They did themselves 
well, those old monks. I sincerely hope that the good Abbot 
Whiting enjoyed many fine banquets in the hospitable abbey 
before he was drawn through the town to the Tor Hill upon a 


WITH OTHER EYES 


65 


hurdle and executed to please Sir Thomas Cromwell. Do you 
know that the Abbot’s Kitchen was the inspiration of our old 
nursery rhyme, ‘Little Jack Horner’?” 

“The descendants of the Horner family, who still reside at 
Mells, resent the legend and deny that there is any foundation 
for its truth. They maintain that ‘Little Jack Horner/ along 
with ‘Old Mother Hubbard’ and ‘Jack and Jill/ appeared in a 
comic play written in Queen Elizabeth’s time by a certain John 
Still, but this is the legend: 

“An Abbot of Glastonbury, on being told that King Henry 
VIII. was angry with him for having built a kitchen such as 
he, the King, could not bum down, promptly sent his steward, 
Jack Homer, to the King with a present — a suitable bribe. It 
was a pie which contained the transfer deeds of twelve manors. 
Jack Homer lifted up the cmst, abstracted from the dish the 
title-deed of the manor of Mells, and when he returned to 
Glastonbury he told the Abbott that the King had given it to 
him. The doctor sang the old words: 

“‘Little Jack Homer, 

Sat in a comer, 

Eyeing his Christmas pie. 

He put in his thumb, 

He pulled out a plum, 

Saying, “What a brave boy am I!”*” 

He took the oyster-shell from Mrs. Sarsfield’s hand and wrote 
on its white surface the date and month of the year. 

“A memento of Jack Homer,” he said. “No doubt that shell 
held a bon-bouche for some jolly monk, if not for the wily 
Abbott himself.” 

His kind eyes gazed intently at the smiling lady. He had 
grown so accustomed to her silent responses that he looked for 
nothing more. She was prettier to-day than usual; her violet 
eyes, so like and yet unlike Evangeline’s, were deeper in tone. 
There was a nervousness about her manner which he both felt 
and saw. He wondered what was the cause of it. 

He suggested a slight detour in their return to the Hostel, but 
Mrs. Sarsfield declined. 

“I have an important letter to write. I was just returning 
to the Hostel to write it when we met you. It ought to go to- 
night — I promised Evangeline.” 


66 


WITH OTHER EYES 


“Can’t it wait until the morning?” he said. “Women’s letters 
are always so important, and really, dear lady, most of them 
answer themselves if you just let them alone.” 

A fitful smile played round Mrs. Sarsfield’s features. It was 
rather a sad little smile, in spite of the pleasure which his 
insistence gave her. 

“It is to accept an invitation,” she said. “We are leaving 
Glastonbury almost immediately.” The last words were spoken 
with a little gasp, as if she had dipped her head into cold water 
and withdrawn it. As her eyes met the Doctor’s, they dropped 
instantly and a bright flush dyed her face. Mrs. Sarsfield’s 
blushes always took years off her age. 

The Doctor watched it — curiously, almost unkindly, consider- 
ing his tender feelings for the lady, and her modesty. 

As he said nothing, Mrs. Sarsfield went on, rather defensively, 
“Evangeline wants to go.” 

“And do you, Mary?” 

Her name, spoken as she had only heard it spoken in the old, 
old days, when Evangeline’s father was her lover, set every 
pulse in her body throbbing. If he had called her by some 
extravagant term of endearment she would have been less moved, 
have felt less bewilderment, have been less likely to accept the 
truth which his words were intended to convey. He was stand- 
ing by her side, a very big man, looking down at her from what 
she always felt to be his splendid height. The gleaming oyster- 
shell was still in her hand. It seemed to her lover to hold less 
delicacy in its opal tints than the face of the woman whom he 
desired. 

“Tell me, do you want to go, Mary? Do you want to say 
farewell to Glastonbury?” 

The shy eyes were brave ; they dared to look up into his ; they 
must speak the words which her lips refused to say. And they 
spoke tenderly, for the Doctor came very close to her and took 
one of her hands in his own; his covered it completely. He 
possessed it. 

“Why don’t you stay, Mary?” 

Mary let him hold her hand — indeed, he had it so firmly in 
both of his that she could not, without insistence, have with- 
drawn it. 

She could find no breath for the words which must tell him 


WITH OTHER EYES 


67 


that Evangeline had decided to go to Wales. Try as she might, 
she could not steady her shaken senses, control her nerves. The 
suspense was a delicious agony. The pulses of the big man 
were leaping; he longed to feel the fluttering of the little wren 
in his arms, to feel her heartbeating against Ais own, to soothe 
her fears and be tender to her sweet modesty. 

For weeks now he had subconsciously carried her about with 
him, in his daily rounds he had felt the closeness of her half- 
shrinking, half-delicately-yielding body beside him in his car- 
riage. All through the bright days of spring she had been like 
a bundle of sweet flowers to his senses. But until now he had 
not questioned the future. The mother and daughter were ap- 
parently a fixture for some time to come at Glastonbury. It 
was beautiful, when the spring was in the year, to take the gift 
of each day. It was sufficient happiness to feel himself growing 
young again; her presence always assured him that his youth 
was not dead. 

But now that his gentle lady, the little companion of his big 
armchair, was speaking of going away, was hinting at a parting, 
his desires became more definite, his wants more concrete. 

“Mary,” he said, “stay with me. Stay with me, and be my 
wife.” 

With the Doctor’s arms enfolding her, Mary Sarsfield became 
a girl again. She rested her weight against her lover. She 
sighed. The Doctor felt her gift, her coming surrender. 

“Will you stay, Mary?” he said. “Stay in the Vale of Avalon, 
and trust yourself to a big, rough fellow who adores you?” 

Her slight figure pressed still more closely against him. 
Mar>^ was demurely feminine. 

“I will be very good to you, Mary, and as gentle as a big 
fellow can be.” He turned up her blushing face to meet his 
own; he wished to see her love as well as to feel it. 

“Yes, your eyes love me,” he said, “though your shy lips hold 
back the secret. And now, my Mary, I want your lips.” 

“But . . . but . . . Evangeline!” she murmured. “There 
is Evangeline!” 

Her laughing lover caught her face in his two hands and held 
it, held it until he had satisfied himself with her lips. Mary 
Sarsfield, it must be confessed, had in her quiet way a generous 
way of giving, a pretty idea of surrender. 


68 


WITH OTHER EYES 


When the Doctor raised his head from the upturned face, his 
happiness was the fresh happiness of a boy. 

“You’ve made me feel quite young. What a witch you are, 
Mary!” He caught her to him again almost fiercely; then his 
arms slackened. “But I mustn’t be rough with such a gentle 
little thing.” He laughed. “I feel just as crazy as a boy!” 

Mary’s eyes showed her happiness. His vehemence, though’ 
he offered his apology for it, had not hurt her. Of his great 
strength and what he felt she was beautifully conscious. 

“You aren’t thinking any more about going away, Mary? 
You are going to stay? Tell me you will — let me hear you 
say it.” 

“But Evangeline . . . there is Evangeline.” 

“Oh, blow Evangeline!” the big man said laughingly. “There 
won’t very long be any Evangeline for you. When she marries, 
where will you be, I should like to know, with no one to look 
after you?” 

Mary laughed. It was a loving laugh, delicious to his ears. 
But she did not answer. 

“I know women like Evangeline better than you do,” he said. 
“In spite of her modem ways and independent manner, she has 
a very tender spot in her tall young person for romance and 
sentiment. If I go to her and say, ‘Evangeline, I’m a silly old 
duffer, but I am madly in love with your mother and she is 
kind enough to love me, and says that she will marry me if you 
are agreeable, if you will let her,’ what do you think she will 
say?” 

Mary thought for a moment, not only of Evangeline’s probable 
answer, but with satisfaction over his words. The spring air 
seemed warmed by them. 

“You never can tell,” she said, after a pause. “You really 
never can tell or judge of Evangeline.” 

“She may laugh at us up her sleeve,” he said, “for two old 
fools — for to our children we are, of course, quite old, Mary; 
that is only natural. But if I’m not very much mistaken, your 
young Amazon will give us her blessing and be very charming 
and nice about it. Your daughter has a great appreciation of 
happiness,” he said, thoughtfully. “She is a Hedonist in her 
own way, although she is ignorant of the fact.” 

Evangeline’s mother did not answer, for she was so little 


WITH OTHER EYES 


69 


aware of what Hedonism meant that she thought that he was 
speaking from a professional point of view, of some purely 
physical characteristic of Evangeline’s. 

“Love and happiness and beauty appeal to that young lady 
very strongly. We may be, perhaps, just a foolish, middle-aged 
pair in her eyes, but our happiness will touch her, appeal to her 
Hedonist instincts. Am I right in saying that we are amazingly 
happy, Mary? Say I am right.” 

Something of the daughter was stirred in the mother by his 
emotion, for, unexpectedly to the big man, she said, with a touch 
of Evangeline’s passion: 

“You have made me almost too happy! I don’t deserve such 
love. I can’t think why you want me — you are so learned, so 
clever!” 

“My Mary,” he said, “that is what love is. We both wonder 
why we should have been given the best that the world contains. 
Heaven knows why you should trust such charm and gentleness 
to a big, rough fellow like me!” He raised her hands in the 
gallant old fashion and reverently pressed them to his lips. 
“Mary is the most beautiful of all names,” he said. “Nothing 
else would have suited you — you are just my idea of Mary.” 

“And I have always admired the name of David,” she said 
softly. 

“The sweet singer of Israel,” the doctor spoke absently. 

Mary Sarsfield saw his abstraction. She was well accustomed 
to such absences, when the big frame beside her was a mere 
empty hulk. These silences had drawn them unconsciously to 
a close understanding. 

Presently he said, as though he had forced his mind back 
to the conversation which they had broken off, the subject of 
David. 

“Well, I sincerely hope he did write the beautiful poems 
which have been attributed to him, and that he did not behave 
so disgustingly to his faithful Hittite Captain. I never could 
overlook that sin. It was quite villainous. A gentleman 
couldn’t do it, a man of honour. He must, I’m afraid, have 
been an outsider, Mary.” 

Mary, with her new love fluttering in her pulses, was a little 
bewildered. She was not accustomed to speaking of Biblical 
personages in that way. The characters whom the writers of 


70 


WITH OTHER EYES 

the Bible intended us to admire she still obediently admired. 
David was a sacred character; Biblical privileges must be 
allowed to Biblical heroes. God no doubt meant David to gain 
the woman he loved by putting her husband, his trusted Captain, 
in the forefront of the battle. 

To the scholar, one of Mary’s attractions was her capacity for 
silence; it saved her from being a stupid woman. They left 
David’s character alone and returned to more directly personal 
matters. 

“I will go this evening,” he said, laughing, “and ask your 
daughter for your hand in marriage. I will also beg her to 
accept me as her guardian, if not as her stepfather. It’s a 
horrid name!” 

“About our visit,” Mrs. Sarsfield said, nervously, “I think 
we must go.” A little blush deepened the perfect pinkness of 
her skin. The blush was for Evangeline, for her confession, for 
her relations with Allan. Did the Doctor know of what had 
happened ? 

“How long must you stay?” he asked. “Don’t make it too 
long. Don’t forget, Mary, that I am not Allan. I’m not twenty- 
two — I have no time to waste.” 

“Nor I, David. Do you know how old I am? I’m afraid 
you don’t!” Her words seemed almost a forced confession; 
they expressed fear. 

He took her face in his two firm hands. 

“Ask a doctor how old these pink cheeks are, how old these 
sweet violet eyes are, how old these lips!” He bent his head 
devoutly and kissed them as he spoke. “They are as young as 
I want, beloved woman. They are every bit as young as the 
fairest youth in my eyes — far too young for me!” 

“Oh, David!” His ardour and kisses had developed her 
courage; she was able to say “David” quite confidently now. 
“Oh, David, I must be older than you think. I am Evangeline’s 
mother — you seem to forget that!” 

“The devil you are!” he said, with a chuckle. “And I often 
think it must be the other way about. But as you are, I must 
ask her for your hand, I suppose.” 

“Evangeline nurses me like a doll or a child. I know it must 
look foolish to a big man like you.” 

The Doctor looked quickly round the grounds which sur- 


WITH OTHER EYES 


71 


round the Abbey. There was no one in sight. He bent down 
and lifted her up and held her in his arms. As a mother holds 
an infant to her breast, he held Mary Sarsfield, Evangeline’s 
mother. 

Her resistance was absurd, and while his face covered hers 
there was silence. 

Trembling and panting, he set her on her feet again. His 
eyes were full of mischief. 

“We won’t tell Evangeline,” he said, as he gazed into her 
shocked, smiling eyes. “She might be jealous. But we know — 
you and I — that she isn’t the only one who is to have that 
privilege.” 

“David, you are just like a boy!” 

“And you, Mary, what are you like? Shall I tell you what 
you are like, what to me you always are like? You are like all 
the delicate flowers that grow in old gardens — the lavender, the 
china-roses, the pink and blue and white forget-me-nots — they 
are your cheeks and eyes and teeth — and the little straight 
daisies, and the sweet shy violets, peeping from under their 
leaves, and — best of all to me — the tender ivy, clinging to tall 
walls. And besides all these, Mary, you are the gentle mother, 
virgin-hearted and pure of soul. That is the Mary, who loves 
me. That is who you are and what you are like, beloved 
woman.” 

Mary certainly resembled many of the things which he had 
suggested, though she little knew it. At the moment she only 
said: 

“At my age, David? How can I?” She laughed delightedly. 
“It is only your eyes.” 

“My eyes!” he said sternly. “Now, what do you mean, my 
lady? My eyes are my fortune, and I doubt if you could beat 
me where fossils and women are concerned. You hurt my 
feelings very much when you depreciate my eyesight. Don’t 
suggest any such thing to my patients, for heaven’s sake!” 

His mock annoyance was spoken as they were leaving the 
Abbey gardens. Mary had refused the invitation to linger. 
The letter had to be written to Mrs. McArthur. The visit 
was to be paid, if Evangeline was still in the same humour. 

“And after the visit?” the Doctor said. 


72 WITH OTHER EYES 

His eyes made her blush. “We will see,” she said, 
nervously. 

“We won’t see,” he said, “we will get married.” 

“But, Evangeline,” she said again. “She wishes to travel, 
to see more of England, and go to Europe.” 

“And you wish to get married,” he said, “and have a home 
and a big, rough husband who adores you. Now, don’t deny 
the truth of it. And who’s going to win — Evangeline or you?” 

“I am her mother.” 

“And so you must give in in all things to the child who 
has brought you up so well!” 

“If she objects, I think that I ought to consider her before 
my own happiness — I always have done so.” 

“Bless you, Mary, for saying that!” Her lover caught her 
hand in his. “ ‘Your own happiness’ — that’s something to 
feed on, little woman! How is it possible that such a bit of 
a thing as you really are can make a big, hulking chap like my- 
self feel as I do?” 

He was saying good-bye at the parting of their ways. 

“My prayers will be awfully full of you to-night, Mary. 
God bless you!” 

“And you, David,” she said. “I do thank God for you.” 


CHAPTER V 


When the Doctor met Evangeline coming down the Tor Hill 
she scarcely looked surprised. She had walked on ahead to 
give him his chance, as she had expressed it to herself. He 
had now met her to tell her what had transpired. She could 
see it in his face. 

As she bore down on him his embarrassment made his 
mission still more obvious. He was not prepared for her re- 
mark, for he did not know that the sun of love had trans- 
figured his open honest face. 

“Have you made my mamma very happy, Doctor? Is that 
what has brought you up the hill to meet me?” 

His eyes flashed with humour. “She has made me very 
happy,” he said, taken aback by her sudden attack. “I have 
come to ask you if you will allow her to marry me, if you 
will give me your mother’s hand in marriage, and,” he bowed 
very low, “if you will accept me as your guardian?” 

Evangeline swallowed the something which filled her throat. 
It was as unexpected as her question had been to the Doctor. 
Her one dear, earthly care and possession was being taken 
away from her! The big man in front of her wanted it. 
He had the sort of love for her mother which Allan had not 
had for herself. Her timid little mother had “bowled the 
big man over,” turned his world upside-down, turned the 
scholarly fossil into a splendid lover! Her mother had done 
what she had failed to do! A dart of envy entered the girl’s 
soul, but she held out her hands to the Doctor, who took them 
eagerly. 

“I’m awfully jealous,” she said, and the words were true, 
“but I’m so glad! Yes, you can marry mamma, but you 
must father me if you do.” 

“My dear, my dear,” he said, “that’s what I want to do.” 

Evangeline held up her face. Her curling lips were 
trembling and tears made her eyes more like her mother’s. The 
man’s simple nature responded to the girl’s emotion. 

73 


74 


WITH OTHER EYES 


“A daughter’s kiss, Doctor, to seal the compact. I will 
try not to be too strict with mamma, or too much- in the way, 
if you will spoil me a great, great deal, and not make mamma 
feel that she can do without me — I couldn’t bear that!” 

“Certainly I won’t,” he said, “until the time comes when 
you want to do without her.” 

His eyes questioned her. She understood their kindness 
and meaning. 

She laughed. “There is no immediate prospect of that. You 
will have to do with me for a good bit. But I must honestly 
confess that your news has come as a pleasant relief — mamma’s 
future is now assured, her welfare is not altogether in my 
hands.” 

“Then I have both your consent and approval? They were 
the only things which made your mother hesitate. She thought 
you might object, or dislike the idea, even if you gave your 
permission.” 

“But why?” Evangeline said. “Why object to the thing. 
I’ve been so discreetly encouraging?” 

“Oh, you have, have you, young lady?” The Doctor was 
delighted. 

“Certainly, or you wouldn’t be saying this to me now! Do 
you really think that if I hadn’t wanted you for mamma’s 
husband and my guardian, I’d have let her stay on at Glaston- 
bury, have let her go out drives with you, and coquette with 
you in her demure, knowing little way?” Evangeline’s eyes 
were tender and whimsical. 

“So you saw how the wind blew?” 

At his words Evangeline caught hold of his arm and ran 
him swiftly down the hill beside her. She would not let 
him stop. Her laughter was contagious. 

“Why, of course I did! But if I had let mamma even 
suspect by the smallest breath of teasing, she’d have taken 
fright like a wild antelope in a wood. You would never have 
caught her.” 

The Doctor laughed. “She had an excellent chaperon. I 
have to thank you more than I guessed, I supposed” 

“You owe everything to me, Father David,” she said. “I 
held your happiness in my hands.” 


WITH OTHER EYES 75 

“Did you indeed? Is that a fact?” The doctor doubted 
if Evangeline knew his Mary. 

“Mother has one of the daintiest and most sensitive natures 
you can imagine. She thought that I was only thinking of 
my own enjoyment in Glastonbury. Sometimes her sensibilities 
won’t bear the truth — do you know what I mean?” the girl 
6miled. “And yet here she is, getting two husbands, and any- 
one would think she’d run away if a man kissed her finger-tip ! 
Isn’t that so, Doc?” Evangeline’s eyes were mocking. 

“I admit that I had to proceed cautiously.” 

“Oh,” Evangeline said, “I should have thought that you 
probably took the citadel by storm, or lassoed her when she 
ran away! Every woman likes being drawn back.” 

“I did, in a manner.” 

They laughed happily together. Evangeline was visualiz- 
ing her mother’s enjoyment of her devout lover’s strength. 
She knew that she had a little woman’s admiration for a big 
man. She felt a strange enjoyment at her mother’s second 
courtship. It seemed to her such a tremendous piece of good 
luck, this second blooming. 

Presently she said, quite abruptly, “Will your son not 
object? Will he take the news as well as I have done?” She 
looked at the Doctor quickly. “I have taken it well, Doc, 
haven’t I? Aren’t you awfully relieved?” 

“You have,” he said. “I don’t see why Mary was so 
anxious.” 

“Oh, it’s a case of Mary? How funny! But of course it 
is! Forgive me. It’s only that she is my mamma, and it does 
seem strange. Mary and David. It sounds like the House of 
Jesse, doesn’t it? Mamma was anxious, of course, because 
I have never let her imagine that I ever dreamed of such a 
thing, and mamma never seems to quite expect what I do or 
feel. I suppose some girls might object to a step-papa — I 
expect that was what it was. In mamma’s day perhaps they 
did. But what about your son?” 

“Oh, Allan. I haven’t to consult Allan. We understand 
each other. He’d call me an old fool, I suppose, but I haven’t 
to ask his permission. ‘Mamma’s day’ indeed!” His eyes 
twinkled. “I suppose you do, too? But Allan has his own 


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idea of happiness, of what is the best thing life can give us. 
I wonder if he will ever regret his choice ?” 

Evangeline’s eyes remained perfectly steadfast as she 
listened to him and answered him. 

“If I ever get the chance, I’d like to try to make him, Doc,” 
she said. “He’s years older than you — years and years.” She 
gave the arm which was linked in hers a friendly hug. 
“Mamma is a lucky woman. I am longing to hear what she 
has to say about your proposal.” 

He looked into the laughing eyes. “Make it easy for her, 
dear,” he said. “Let her know that you have given your con- 
sent gladly.” 

“I’ve brought her up since I was a baby, sir. Surely you 
can trust me to deal mercifully with her in this trying situa- 
tion?” 

“I think I can, Heavenly Blue,” he said. “But you are such 
a madcap.” 

“No, sirree” — she emphasized the Americanism — “only a 
simple girl from Acadie who came to the Vale of Avalon in 
search of romance, and . . .” She paused. 

“And has she found it?” 

“For her mamma, yes, a very pretty romance, but for her- 
self — well, she is no queen to her Sir Launcelot, for, like 
Elaine, he has no need of her. But she will not die of love 
for him and float down the river Brue on a barge.” 

“My dear!” the Doctor said. “And this is a son of mine!” 

“Ambition is Allan’s Guinevere,” the girl said. “His career 
is his Sangreal. We all have our different ideas of the things 
that matter.” She swung round suddenly; her eyes were proud. 
“Dear Doc, not one word more of this now and for ever more ! 
I wanted to make things plain between us to show you how 
much I need mamma and you,” — she gazed round at the beauti- 
ful view — “why I wanted to leave Glastonbury, for a little time.” 
She added the words thoughtfully. “When we have paid our 
visit, I will busy myself about mamma’s marriage. I shall have 
lots to see to.” She laughed tenderly. “What fun it is! I 
suppose I ought to discuss settlements?” Her eyes had lost 
their melancholy; a glint of her fighting Sarsfield ancestry 
showed in their humour. 

“I am ready to discuss anything you like,” he said, with 
complete understanding of her mood and its need at the moment. 


WITH OTHER EYES 77 

They had borne down with swinging strides upon the Chalice 
Hostel. At its door Evangeline stopped. 

“What fun for the medievalists,” she said, “the famous 
antiquary of Glastonbury going to marry the little lady from 
Grand Pre, the timid little mother of the Colonial girl who 
leads her such a dance! She has caught the one eligible in 
the place! But mamma is a bom coquette, isn’t she, Doc? 
She can give me points and points in the wiles of womanhood 
and in the managing of men.” 

The big doctor laughed heartily. “You are a vixen,” he 
said, “but I believe you’re really glad, and that, in a manner, 
you are right.” 

“I’m more than glad, Doc — I’m delighted! You’ve relieved 
me of a great and growing anxiety,' mamma’s future.” Her 
blue eyes made him wonder at the courage of his son. They 
pleaded as she said, “You will spoil me, won’t you? And let 
mamma spoil me too! Remember that I hold your happiness 
in my hands.” 

“I can’t understand the man who wouldn’t spoil you,” he 
said. “If you were as small and gentle as Mary,” lie laughed, 
“you’d be nearly as nice, though never as pretty.” 

The girl pushed him gently from her as she closed the door, 
and cried, “Good-night, and sweet dreams of Mary! But don’t 
forget that she is my mamma!” 

“You dear old thing,” she said tenderly to herself, “you 
have got it very badly! Why, all Grand Pre knows that I 
have the Sarsfield handsomeness as well as the Brettingham 
beauty” — her mother was a Brettingham. “When I’m gentle 
and sentimental and searching the wide world over for a Sir 
Launcelot, I’m a Brettingham, I feel like soft muslins and 
lavender ribbons. All the rest of me is pure Sarsfield — I’m 
for the King! I’ll teach you about ‘Prince’!” She stuck out her 
arms. “When I look at the ruins of the Abbey, and all that 
Glastonbury suffered at the hands of the ruthless Reformers, 
the Sarsfield is strong in me. I can say with absolute 
sincerity, I’m for the King! I’m for the faith that raised 
these glorious monuments! What have the Protestants ever 
built?” She turned up her nose. “A faith which has 
inspired so little Art — what is it worth? Just what love is 
worth that never forgets wisdom and caution and all that robs 
it of the only things it’s worth i” 


CHAPTER VI 


When Evangeline entered the hostel, she found her mother 
sitting by her writing-table. Mrs. Sarsfield had posted her 
acceptance of the invitation from Mrs. McArthur. 

She looked up shyly as Evangeline appeared. She was 
nervous of her own act of independence, of her own promise 
to the Doctor. 

“Where have you been, Eve?” she said. “It is nearly 
dinner-time; you must make haste.” 

“With your sweetheart, mamma.” 

“Oh, Evangeline I” 

“Well, isn’t he? He says you are going to marry him.” 
Evangeline was looking down upon her mother, who could not 
see her eyes. The girl had put a mock severity into her voice. 
She felt her mother shrink a little, as though she was afraid 
that her daughter, because of her youth, would laugh at her 
new happiness. . Evangeline turned her mother’s face up to hers 
and held it in her two hands. 

“Beloved little mamma,” she said, “I think it’s the nicest 
thing that ever happened ! He’s the biggest, dearest infant that 
ever a woman loved ! Come and sit on my lap and tell me all 
about it.” 

Evangeline lifted her mother up in her arms and sat her- 
self down in a comfortable chair. Her mother cuddled up to 
her. 

“Now,” Evangeline said, “if I can’t have a lover of my 
own, tell me all about yours,” — she kissed her mother’s blush- 
ing face — “everything, mamma.” 

“There is so little to tell, dear heart, so surprisingly little.” 

“So little? Multum in parvo, I suppose — just a case of 
‘I love you. Will you marry me?’ ” 

“Something like that,” Mary Sarsfield blushed. 

“And you said, ‘Yes, David,’ just like that, bang off, no 
nice thrilling leading up to it, no heavenly beating about the 

78 


WITH OTHER EYES 


79 


bush? How dull of you, mamma ! No holding back to fire his 
desires? Just ‘Yes, David/ when he asked, ‘Will you marry' me, 
Mary?* ” The girl laughed. “He did say ‘Mary/ now, didn’t 
he, mamma?” 

“Yes, Eve. He likes my name. But . . — she paused — 

. . but, dear Evangeline, I only said yes if it doesn’t 

make you unhappy. He understands.” 

“Does he? You delicious mamma, as if I didn’t know! 
He came up the Tor Hill to ask me for your hand. I gave it 
to him on condition that he took mine as well.” 

“Evangeline!” 

“Yes, mamma, he has sworn to love me too, a very, very 
great deal, and he has promised that if you get too fond of 
him and neglect me, he will be horrid to you, flirt with some 
patient and make you fall back again upon your faithful 
but neglected child.” She rose from her chair, and, holding 
her mother close to her heart, she danced round the big room 
with her in her arms. “There, you dear, dear, silly, senti- 
mental, romantic, young mamma, your confession’s made ! 
Your mauvais quart d’heure is passed, and Evangeline is 
willing.” 

She tossed her mother down on her bed and made the 
spring mattress bound up and down. “If he stops me play- 
ing with you, mamma, I’ll kill him. Tell him so, will you?” 

Mrs. Sarsfield was laughing and crying at the same time. 

“He will never interfere with your happiness, Eve. He’s 
the dearest and kindest of men, I’m sure.” 

“But he might not think that it was dignified for me to 
toss his wife on the bed and shake her about like a rolly-polly 
pudding.” Evangeline made the mattress bound still higher. 
“But if he makes my beloved mamma into a starched, proper 
Mrs. Fairclough, or changes her into a stone image of a living 
woman, or into one of his precious limestone ammonites, or 
any other extinct mollusc, he’ll rouse the gallant Sarsfields’ 
fighting-blood in his adopted daughter. Do you remember,” 
she said gaily, “the first time he caught you sitting on my 
knee?” 

Mrs. Sarsfield blushed. She was thinking of the Doctor’s 
remark upon the subject. 

“I believe he fell in love with you at that moment,” 


80 


WITH OTHER EYES 


Evangeline said. “I remember now how foolishly he pre- 
scribed for you and the way he looked at me! He hadn’t got 
used to us by that time.” 

Mrs. Sarsfield blushed even more vividly. Evangeline lifted 
her off the bed and set her on her feet, as the Doctor had done 
in the grounds of the Abbey ruins. 

“You darling mamma!” she said. “He did far more than 
merely say ‘Will you marry me?’ You know he did — your 
blushes tell it! You get like a pink peony when you think of 
it.” 

“I didn’t say that he only said that, Evangeline.” 

“And you did far more than you said, little mamma. You 
can always be trusted to do that — that is your little way.” 

The bell rang for dinner. Evangeline had not changed. 
She dashed out of her mother’s room into her own. It is in 
our own room that we are our true selves. While Evangeline 
dressed for dinner her eyes were filled with tears. 


PART II 


LIFE IN A FOREST CLEARING AND AT TREGARON 
MANOR 

CHAPTER I 

Alex Hemingway sat down to think. She knew that for at 
least half-an-hour her little son, Tony, was safe, because 
Bartholomew, the Red-foot Indian who brought her a small 
quantity of milk every morning, had taken the boy into the 
forest. The Indian was called Bartholomew because his parents 
had both died before he was christened, and his uncle, who 
adopted him, remembering the missionary’s Biblical explanation 
of the name Bartholomew (son of one’s own brother) bestowed 
it upon the scrap of humanity which was being received into the 
fold as a child of God at the Mission Chapel. 

The silent Indian loved the bright-haired Tony, whose tongue 
was never still, with a strange devotion. Alex knew that while 
her son was with him he was perfectly safe and gloriously 
happy. 

Alex was twenty-four, Tony was five years old. She had 
been little more than a child in her knowledge of the world 
when he was bom, but the years since his wonderful advent 
had been so full of care and disillusionment that at twenty- 
four she looked a toil-wom woman, a woman who had for- 
gotten her girlhood, forgotten what youth and its ideals meant. 
She had lost sight of her ideals in her lonely fight for the 
material necessities of existence. 

Sometimes when she was playing with Tony, the anxieties 
and disillusionment of her married life would fall from her 
and she would be young again, the girl-mother in spirits and 
appearance. Nature asserts herself at odd moments. When, 
for instance, she was washing her husband’s clothes, and the 
fine skin of her hands was blistered at the knuckles by the 
soda and the process of rubbing, laughter would bubble up 
in her, and all alone in the wooden hut in the meagre clear- 
ing in the big forest, she would laugh and sing, throwing fine 
scorn at the fates who had played her so sorry a trick. 

81 


82 


WITH OTHER EYES 


On one such occasion, when she was making the cabin ring 
with her laughter, her good-looking husband idled into the 
kitchen. In his early days he had been in the 22nd Lancers. 
Finding it impossible to live on anything like his income, he 
had sold out, and with no talent for anything in the world but 
idling and enjoying life, had gone out to Canada to make his 
fortune. It did not take long to spend what little capital he 
had; he had managed that before he took over the hut and 
clearing from the widow of a man who had died very suddenly 
of summer dysentery. It afforded him a house over his head; 
beyond that he did not trouble himself. 

“What’s the joke?” he said. “Glad you find something to 
laugh at in this cursed place!” 

Alex continued to laugh. 

“Out with it!” he said. “It’s a change from your usual 
silence.” 

Her eyes lost their gaiety. The selfish man apologised. 

“Well, if you don’t grouse, your eyes carry a reproach all 
day long, just as if I could help the damned luck that’s 
followed me everywhere! But don’t let me stop your laughter 
—I’ll clear out.” 

“Don’t go, Larry. I didn’t mean to hurt you; I was only 
laughing at the difference between grim reality and imagina- 
tion. When I married you I fancied that life was going to 
be an idyll in the Limberlost. I had been reading Gene 
Stratton Porter. I was a fool, but she was greatly to blame. 
You and I were to be a sort of Paul and Virginia, living in 
the woods on nothing but love and moths and butterflies. I 
never thought about who was going to wash our clothes or 
cook the inevitable bacon and beans.” 

Larry kicked a wooden chair across the room. “Paul and 
Virginia didn’t wear many clothes.” 

“That was it, I suppose. I didn’t know that living in a 
log hut in the forest in Canada, with primitive Nature right 
up to your very door, meant pretty much the same to a woman 
as living in a log hut anywhere else, when she has all the 
cooking and washing and cleaning to do, besides looking after 
a child who finds some ingenious way of killing himself every 
half-hour.” She sighed good-naturedly. “I suppose it might 
be even worse at Clapham in a thick fog.” 


83 


WITH OTHER EYES 

“I’m sorry, old girl, that everything has turned out so dif- 
ferently from what I expected.” He put his arm round his 
wife’s thin body and looked into her eyes. “You do look a 
bit too fine,” he said. “Take it easier. You keep things so 
awfully nice — it’s too much for you. Let things slide a bit. 
I shan’t mind — I shan’t notice it.” 

His wife smiled. Larry had said these same things so often 
before. They had meant just so much, that while he was watch- 
ing her toiling like a hardworked servant or charwoman, he 
felt sorry, really sorry. But it did not mean enough to make 
him even chop the wood for her, or do anything to lighten 
her day’s toil. It was not a man’s job. 

* * * * * * 

But to-day was not washing-day. She was grave and 
thoughtful. Bigger things were in the air. Her husband 
had been away on one of his “big-game expeditions” for more 
than two months. On these lengthy shooting expeditions he 
spent more money than they could afford and enjoyed himself 
immensely. He made a pretence that they were undertaken for 
purely practical purposes, that he was endangering his life to 
secure valuable skins, for which there was a very good market 
at the Hudson Bay Store attached to the Mission School. All 
that Alex knew about the matter was that each time he went 
on a shooting expedition, a great deal of money went with him, 
and that none ever came back. Nothing more was ever heard 
about the sale of the skins. 

The capital upon which they were now living was Alex’s. 
It was almost all gone, he had taken the last of it away with 
him on this expedition. He had been away for two whole 
months and she had not had a line from him. A hundred 
times over she said to herself: “If Larry had been wealthy, 
we should have been very happy; he would have been a charm- 
ing husband. But unfortunately we are poor.” 

The fault lay with herself. She ought not to have married 
him. Nature had never meant him for a humdrum husband 
and father. He was of no use as either, though, to do him 
justice, he did not know it. Brought up by a snobbish mother, 
he had been pampered and admired from his infancy upwards. 

Eagerly and callously he had left his wife and child all 
alone in the little forest hut. When he went off on a shoot- 


84 


WITH OTHER EYES 


ing expedition, Alex scarcely regretted his going. It was the 
difficult Tony who made her existence possible. He was the 
beginning and end of it. 

She sat down by the kitchen table to think things out; she 
realized that a crisis in her life had come, she visualized the 
small figure of her son running by the side of the tall 
Bartholomew as he stalked along through the silent forest in 
his skin trousers, fringed down the outer sides, his feet en- 
cased in moccasins; she could see the sunlight playing on the 
soft rose-tinted trunks of the spruce firs, which made shadowy 
glades for nymphs and the gay god Pan to play in. Her happy- 
hearted son was chattering as he trotted by the side of his long- 
legged companion. Tony would always run until he was quite 
breathless and tired out, rather than allow Bartholomew to 
shorten his strides for his sake. 

Alex’s weary eyes shone with pride as she pictured the 
little figure, which was dearer to her than life itself, dear 
enough to make it all worth while. 

There was profound silence in the hut, the silence of a 
world whose only sounds come from Nature, and Nature at 
that moment was drugged with the heat of a noonday sun. 

Alex looked up from the bare boards of her kitchen-table; 
her eyes had been vacantly gazing at the knots in the grain 
of its wood. As she raised them she said aloud: 

“It is a case of my pearl necklace now, it has come into it 
at last!” 

She thought again, her eyebrows drawn together, her ex- 
pression serious. 

“Father insured the necklace, I remember, for nineteen 
hundred pounds. I suppose that is much beyond its selling 
value, but it must be worth a thousand pounds at least. Surely 
I could furnish a good big roomy house for a thousand pounds, 
and keep enough over for at least two years’ rent ? A house in 
a nice, but unfashionable part of London — don’t I know the 
localities!” She shivered. “I’m sure it’s the thing to do, to 
do at once.” She jumped up hastily from her chair and found 
a sheet of paper and a pencil and made a rough calculation on 
it. The figures added up satisfactorily, judging by her pleased 
expression. 

“And now I’ve got to lose Larry — that’s the first step.” 


WITH OTHER EYES 


85 


Her laugh echoed through the cabin. “I can lose him just 
as satisfactorily as the neighbours lost the husband to whom 
they deliberately married the old maid in ‘Mrs. Wiggs of the 
Cabbage-Patch.* He is lost, as far as that goes. He has lost 
himself. If I sell up everything here — and, after all, it’s all 
my own, so why shouldn’t I ? — and use the last bit of my hoard 
which he doesn’t know anything about, I have a right to go to 
London and start life all over again. My thousand pounds 
will be capital for my boarding-house.” 

A combatant look came into her eyes, for she was picturing 
the conventional rebukes which her more fortunately-circum- 
stanced and happily-married women relatives and friends would 
throw at her. 

“I don’t care!” she cried. “I won’t let the boy’s life be 
ruined! I just won’t let my son grow up to be a drifter. 
This country is full of indolent failures, of youths who have 
no idea of work or of a career. Tony shan’t be one of them! 
He shan’t suffer for my idiotic folly!” She laughed bitterly. 
“What a silly fool I was!” 

She found her writing-materials and wrote a letter to an 
old school-friend. The subject of the letter had been simmer- 
ing in her mind for many weeks — in fact, ever since her hus- 
band had announced that he was going on another hunting- 
expedition. It ran thus : 

“Dearest Ducie, 

“I know that you will be shocked to hear that I have lost 
my husband. I am selling off the hut and returning to London. 
Will you find me two quiet, inexpensive rooms — a bed and 
sitting-room — so that I can have somewhere to lay my boy’s 
head when I arrive? 

“I will tell you all my news when we meet. It was all very 
sudden. 

“Yours, with love, 

“Alex.” 

She read the letter through. “There,” she said grimly, 
“that’s the first fib, and there’ll be more to follow! And yet 
it isn’t a fib, though it is as good as one. But it must be 
done. I’d tell a thousand and one lies of that sort for Tony. 
Some lies are well worth telling.” 


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WITH OTHER EYES 


She thought for a few minutes. “It would all go, every 
shilling of it! We should have absolutely nothing soon!” 

She rose from her seat and went to a looking-glass which 
hung from a nail on the wall. 

Alex looked at her face in the glass, a tired, anxious face, 
with the glow of youth gone from it. Her eyes, which Nature 
had made more for tears than laughter, were still beautiful; 
her lips, which had been made for love, were stern and pale. 
As she looked at them, they seemed to her “unkissed, unkind.” 

“What a drudge!” she said. “Whatever will Ducie think?” 

The cheap little glass, which had been bought at the one 
provision-store at the mission settlement, had shown her no 
more than her face. She had to jump up quite high to catch 
even a glimpse of her white throat. 

“What a scraggy, dowdy drudge! Poor Larry!” 

The thinness of her neck had horrified her. All the brilliant 
lights, as fitful as her own smiles, had gone from her hair; they 
had gone so gradually that she was unaware of the change in its 
colour. It was now lustreless and limp for want of sufficient 
nourishment. 

“But what on earth does it matter?” she said. “As a woman 
my life’s finished. From now on I am only to count as a mother 
and a breadwinner, a guardian of the life I brought into the 
world, with as little real thought about what I was doing as a 
cat when she has kittens. I must try to atone.” 

She read the letter which she had written, over again. A 
twinkle lit up her face; humour was her gift from the gods; 
it was never far from her. In her worst hours of stress it came 
boldly out of its lurking-place and fought for her as nothing 
else could have done. Humour is the best of comrades. 

“I think I’ve put that quite neatly,” she said, as her eyes 
scanned the letter which she held in her hand. She was 
picturing Ducie reading it in London in her respectable 
Kensington home. 

“You will be shocked to hear that I have lost my husband.” 
A light laugh followed the words. “How jolly funny! But 
so I have lost him; I have lost him for the last three years. 
I only had him for about . . . how long? Let me see 
. . .” — she paused — “ ... for about a year. I’ve lost 

him and I don’t mean to find him.” She rose from her seat. 


WITH OTHER EYES 87 

“Now for the selling of this place, and the losing of myself 
and the boy!” 

As she said the last words, her whole being changed, her 
face became beautiful. The words had let loose a dammed-up 
river of love, which soothed and warmed her in its beautiful 
waters. Both physically and spiritually she felt renewed. The 
love for which she craved came to her with ever-renewed 
strength at the very briefest thought of Tony. The love which 
she ought to have bestowed upon her husband she gave to 
Tony, together with her maternal love, which was his by Nature. 
Alex was endowed with an immense capacity for love; Tony 
was her only outlet. 

Pictures flashed through her brain of a successful develop- 
ment of the enterprise. She meant to launch out on a wonder- 
ful undertaking, full of daring and courage. It was to take 
the form of a boarding-house in London, run for girl-students 
and poor ladies only. Her charges were to be exceptionally 
moderate. At first she was going to content herself with a 
margin of profit, just enough to clear expenses and give herself 
and her boy a home. 

With the optimism of her nature, she saw her business ex- 
panding and growing until she had become a well-off general 
manageress of a large and paying concern. She could see 
herself able to pick and choose from amongst the hosts of people 
who came to ask her to give them rooms. Already Tony was 
in his naval uniform, following in the footsteps of her father 
and her grandfather. She could see him in his middy’s dress, 
his gold hair shining as brightly as his buttons. 

Larry was forgotten — Larry, the ardent lover of her girl- 
hood, with whom she had imagined she was going to spend 
an idyllic life in the Limberlost of Canada. He had proved 
a failure, a complete and absolute failure. She did not like 
to think of how great a failure, because he was Tony’s father. 
In her mind she had said good-bye to him and to all her past 
dreams. She had been thinking over this plan for the past 
two months. It was all perfected in her brain. Now was 
the time for action. Larry would, she was sure, never really 
miss her. His vanity would be hurt to think that she could 
give him up without one word of complaint or protest. From 
the very first month of her married life, she had realized that if 


88 


WITH OTHER EYES 


their home was to be a peaceful one, she must appear to be 
subservient to his will. To keep him amiable — a very charm- 
ing amiability while it lasted — she must give in in all things, 
smile at all things, and create an atmosphere of cheerfulness. 
There was to be no give-and-take which is the sum total of 
domestic bliss. If Alex tried to make him look at things 
seriously, he assumed the air of a martyr; she was spoiling his 
life. When things went wrong it was her fault, and even though 
he lived on her money he let her wear her fingers to the bone 
and gave her no help. The first time she blistered her fingers 
in washing his flannel shirts, he had taken the suffering hands 
in his and kissed them remorsefully. Larry had been a 
splendid lover. 

But as the months passed into years and the scrubbing 
became heavier, for now there was the boy’s washing added 
to their own, he forgot to gather her tired body into his arms 
and pet her. It was what Larry forgot to do rather than what 
he did that robbed Alex’s days of their happiness. Her worn 
hands seemed only to show him how disappointingly she had 
worn, her high-bred type had quickly Tost its beaut e du diable. 

When her wit made him laugh, he still admired and courted 
her. When anxiety and physical exhaustion robbed her of it, 
her presence annoyed him. Her lack of humour roused un- 
comfortable thoughts in his mind, thoughts which never troubled 
him when he was not actually face to face with the fact that 
Alex had done a very poor thing for herself when she married 
him. 

Alex knew her man so well that she felt no compunction in 
selling off her home. Its four rough walls and the little clear- 
ing had seen her short life of passion and romance fade into 
years of drudgery and toil. 

Her nearest neighbours were the Mission Fathers and one 
or two nuns who did saintly work amongst the Indians and 
the poor whites who were scattered about the lumber camps 
and small clearings in the virgin forest. She had not con- 
sulted the Fathers upon the step which she was about to take, 
for she knew that even though, as men, they might approve 
of it, as good Catholics and Fathers of the Church they must 
not condone it. 

It had come to this point in her feeling for Larry, that some- 


WITH OTHER EYES 


89 


times she wished he was dead. It would be better if he died 
before he drifted further and further down the stream of 
humanity until he reached the level of some of the Englishmen 
whom she knew in Canada, who were constitutionally idle. 
Men wanting in the determination to succeed are of no use in a 
land where all but the strongest go to the wall. She had seen 
lots of them, well-bom university men, earning or seeking 
a hand-to-mouth existence in small inns as waiters, or work- 
ing as navvies on the railway-lines. Canada is cursed by such 
men and by its “remittance men” and their idle progeny. 

That Larry might come to their pitiful level was not un- 
likely. But of one thing she was certain, that her boy was 
not going to be brought up as the sons of such men are brought 
up in Western Canada. 

“Larry will never look for us,” she said to herself, “be- 
cause he doesn’t know that I have the necklace. How soon 
I began to discover that I’d better go on keeping him in 
ignorance of the fact! It would pay for a good many more 
shooting expeditions, and buy some very pretty presents that 
I should never see!” She laughed. “How foolishly much 
I cared when I first found that receipted bill for a silver 
chain purse! How young I must have been! Now it’s only 
the money spent on the silver bags that I mind, not ‘the bits 
of fluff’ who receive them. Poor Larry! I wonder if any- 
thing will ever wake him up to the reality of life, to his 
responsibility as a father.” She held out her arms: “Whatever 
there is of a God or a Loving Father, do keep me fit and worthy 
to be Tony’s mother! Dear God, keep close to us. Even if 
You don’t approve, You’ll understand. I do know that You’ll 
understand, because somebody, somewhere, must understand the 
meaning and reason of all that seems to me sheer madness!” 
She dropped her arms. “I’ve quite forgotten how to pray,” she 
said sadly. “The old prayers don’t seem to bear on real life 
one bit, and my real life has made me rely so much on my- 
self that I have almost forgotten the fact that there is a God 
Whom people ask to help them.” She wiped her eyes. “Larry 
prays. I think he prays because he’s afraid not to. It’s be- 
cause he prays that I don’t. He’s ensuring his own life for the 
future, though he won’t insure it in this world for my benefit 


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WITH OTHER EYES 


or the boy’s at his death. I wonder where such prayers go to, 
and what they will do for him?” 

She heard her boy’s voice at the door, and the next moment 
her son was in her arms. 

“Tony,” she said, “I’ve got a secret for you, a big, wonderful 
secret.” 

“Going to the Mission?” His eyes shone with excitement. 
“Going to buy some candies for Tony?” 

“No, far farther than the Mission, Tony?” 

“To China?” 

“No, my darling, not to China.” Alex laughed. Only the 
child could make her laugh ring like a girl’s. 

“ ’Cos you always said that one day you’d go to China and 
look for all the spoons and forks the China boys tooked with 
them when they went to bury their uncles.” 

Alex laughed still more youthfully and hugged the excited 
child. She knew what he meant. In their first palmy days, 
when Larry was anxious about her health, they had had a 
succession of Chinese “boys” to help her. 

“No, my son, not to China, but almost as far. But why do 
you think the secret must be a journey?” 

“ ’Cos my apricot stones said so. And, mummy, I dreamed 
last night that I was flying over the top of a big city, all full 
of churches and mission-houses and fur-stores and big, big 
lights. Bartholomew says that means that I am going on a 
long, long journey.” 

“Come, and I’ll tell you,” she said, “all about it. But you 
must first promise that if mummy takes you this wonderful 
journey on a big ship, and in a fast train, you will be a good, 
good son, and let her pack up all your things.” 

“My new snow-shoes, mummy?” 

“Yes, I think so.” 

“And we’ll take Bartholomew with us, mummy?” 

“I’m afraid not, Tony. Bartholomew must stay here.” 

The boy’s face fell. “Then we can’t go.” 

“But, my son, why not? We will send Bartholomew a nice 
present from London.” 

“London town?” the boy cried. “Oh, mummy, London, the 
biggest wonder fullest city in the whole world !” 


WITH OTHER EYES 91 

“Yes, my darling. Mother is going to leave this little hut 
and take you to London.” 

“For ever and ever and ever?” 

“I think so.” 

Tony’s face fell. “I won’t go! I can never see Bartholomew 
any more! Won’t he ever come to London, too?” 

“I don’t think so, dearest. This is his home.” 

“Why can’t he, mummy?” 

“Because he hasn’t any money.” 

“What is money?” 

“What you buy things with.” 

“Where does money grow, mummy? Can’t we plant lots 
and lots of it ? Bartholomew doesn’t buy things, mummy. Oh, 
can’t he come too? Do say yes, mummy!” Tony stroked her 
cheeks with his soft little hands and made pretty love to her. 

“I can’t, my dearest. I never tell stories to my precious 
son. If I said that he could come, it wouldn’t be true.” 

“If he doesn’t want any money, mummy, why can’t he come 
without it?” 

“But he would want money in London.” 

“Why would he?” 

“Dearest, it’s too difficult to explain. You must believe 
mummy. Bartholomew wouldn’t be happy in London.” 

“But why, mummy, in the grandest and biggest place in the 
world, ever and ever so much bigger than the Mission? It’s 
true, mummy — I saw’d pictures of London at the Mission School 
yesterday.” 

“Yes, my son, I know it is.” 

“Then why couldn’t Bartholomew be happy?” 

“Because there are no wild woods to hunt in, and no big 
lakes to fish in, and the sky isn’t so blue there, or the sun 
so bright. And Bartholomew loves these things; he would 
get a bad cough and be very ill.” 

“Oh, mummy!” The boy’s face fell. 

“What is it, my son?” 

“I don’t want to go to London. I want to stay with 
Bartholomew. ’Sides, I said I would.” 

“What did you say to him?” 

“I promised him that I’d stay with him always and always. 


92 


WITH OTHER EYES 


I’m to work for him when he’s an old man. He’s going to 
teach me how to trap and fish.” Tony struggled to his feet. 

Alex’s arms felt empty. The Indian was more to the child 
than she was; her heart was desolate. 

“Stand still, Tony, and listen while I tell you some of the 
things you will see on the journey. Put your hands at your 
sides and try to follow me. Try to listen and not jump about. 
First we shall go in a train for many days, through the great 
mountains and over the rivers, and by the side of big precipices. 
Then we shall go in a big, big steamer, bigger than you have 
ever seen, across the great lakes. After that we shall be in the 
train again, which will take us over the great flat prairie, where 
all the corn that makes your bread comes from. Then we shall 
see New York, with houses as high as the tall tree^ in the 
forest, and thousands and thousands of men and women walk- 
ing about big, wide streets, with hundreds of shops full of toys, 
and we shall drive in motor-cars. Then we shall go in a still 
bigger steamer, which will take us across the Atlantic Ocean. 
There won’t be any land for days and days. And then, after 
that we shall arrive in London.” 

“With no forest, mummy, and lakes and blue skies?” The 
child’s imagination had taken flight, but he could not imagine 
a world with no forests and no blue skies; he could only 
visualize it as a black dismal place with no light to show him 
the way. 

“There is the Zoo, Tony.” 

“What’s that, mummy?” 

“A place where there are all the wild animals which you 
have never seen, the big elephants and tigers and lions and 
crocodiles.” 

The child’s eyes widened. “With no forests, mummy?” 

Alex smiled. “No, no real forests. But they are quite 
happy.” 

The child looked doubtful. How could they be happy with 
no forest to live in? 

“You could ride on an elephant and give him buns to eat 
out of your hand, and we could go to a circus. And at 
Christmas time, if you were good, I could take you to a 
pantomime — you know the story of ‘The Babes in the Wood’ 
and ‘Dick Whittington’?” 


93 


WITH OTHER EYES 

“Yes, mummy.” 

“Well, at pantomimes you will see ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ 
and lots of fairies, and the most wonderful things, which 
mummy can’t tell you about.” 

“Real fairies, mummy?” 

“Beautiful fairies.” 

“And real Little Red Riding Hood?” 

“A real Little Red Riding Hood.” 

“Then why does she live in London where there aren’t any 
woods, mummy? Where do the Three Bears come from?” 

“Ah, that’s the secret!” Alex cried. Her boy’s eyes were 
glowing; his imagination was on fire. 

“Real fairies, like Bartholomew sees in the woods?” 

“I expect so.” 

“Shall we see the King?” 

“Yes, we shall see the King.” 

“And the Queen?” 

“Yes, and the Queen.” 

“And their little boys?” 

“Yes, and their little girl.” 

“And Alice in Wonderland and the little babies in the Tower, 
and . . . ?” 

His mother nodded her head. 

“And God, mummy?” 

“Yes, darling.” 

“And Jesus?” 

“I think so, I hope so.” 

“And the Virgin Mary and her Baby Boy? I do want to 
see her Baby, mummy! He’s such a dear, wee, wee baby in 
the Mission Chapel.” 

“Yes, darling.” Alex knew that her son was thinking over 
all the things which he had either seen or heard of in his short 
life. The Mission House and School were the Mecca of his 
existence. 

“If London’s the biggest and beautifullest city in the world, 
mummy, I guess the Virgin Mary’s taken her little boy there, 
just like you are going to take me! Father Nicholas says that 
she’s the loveliest and bestest mother God ever made — ’course, 
he doesn’t know you, mummy.” 

Alex took her child’s words very seriously. Much of his 


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conversation often discomfited her, but she never confused his 
young brain by loading it with explanations which would only 
trouble it. 

“If God and the Virgin Mary and her little Boy are all 
there, mummy, and you’ll let me go and feed the elephants and 
see Little Red Riding Hood and all the stores, I’ll go.” He 
paused. “Will you tell Bartholomew, mummy? Say you will 
send him a present, a big present from London.” 

“Shall I send him another little boy, instead of Tony, to 
comfort him?” 

“No!” the child cried. “No, mummy, not another little boy! 
Don’t send him another little boy!” 

“Well, I won’t, darling, but you must tell him yourself.” 

The boy’s face fell, but Alex was firm. The child’s dislike 
of doing or saying anything unpleasant was a feature very 
markedly inherited from his father. She was anxious to stamp 
it out at the very beginning. On the few occasions when she 
had discovered that Tony had told a lie, she had realized that 
they had been told to save either her own or his father’s feelings, 
not to shield himself or from cowardice. 

“You must tell him that you are going home to the country 
of the Great White Queen, that you are going to live near 
the palace which she used to live in.” 

The child’s eyes sparkled. 

“Shall I see her ride through London, mummy, wearing a 
crown like the picture at the Mission School of Queen 
Elizabeth?” 

“No, dearest, the Great White Queen is dead — her grand- 
son is King now.” 

“Is he just a likle boy like me? I’m a grandson, aren’t I?” 

“Yes, but he is a big boy now, far older than Tony.” 

“Then how can he be a grandson and get picture-books like 
I get from granddad?” 

“It’s just a little difficult for you to understand, Tony, but 
wait until you get to London, and then you’ll see. To-morrow 
you must tell Bartholomew that you are going to London, 
where the Great White Queen lived, and he’ll understand. 
Poor Bartholomew doesn’t know much about her grandson — 
he always likes to think that the Great White Queen could 
never die.” 


WITH OTHER EYES 


95 


“What is die, mummy?” 

“Why, Tony, you know what to be buried means? You have 
seen a funeral at the Mission.” 

“Yes, to go to heaven, and see God and Jesus and the Holy 
Mother.” 

“Yes, darling, that’s to be dead, to die means the very same 
thing.” 

“Why doesn’t Bartholomew want the Great White Queen to 
see God and the Holy Mother and her wee Baby Son, mummy?” 

“Because he wants her to go on living and being our Queen, 
and not be taken away from us.” 

The child pondered. “But,” he said, with troubled eyes, 
“how can she be far away if she is with God, for the Padre says 
God is never far away, God’s always as close to us as anything? 
He tells us to say, ‘Thou God, seest me.’ That’s why I’m 
brave when I’m in the dark, mummy. I ’spect the Great White 
Queen is near me, too, only the Padre says we shall all get 
other eyes when we go to heaven, and be able to see every single 
weeny tiny thing, just like Bartholomew does in the forest, only 
far, far better.” 

Alex rose from her seat. His short life in the little hut in 
the vast forest had limited his knowledge of life and human 
beings down to the narrowest. He had seen, perhaps, a dozen 
human beings in all, and five or six buildings which could 
with any truth be called buildings, apart from the Roman 
Catholic Mission School and the Chapel. The small Hudson 
Bay Store, where his mother contrived to get the simple neces- 
saries for her household, was the only shop which he had ever 
seen. But the child of the woods and the winds and the sun- 
shine had an imagination which supplied him with greater 
things than his lonely life had deprived him of. Gamage’s 
held no such toys as his brain invented, and London as a city 
would be put severely to the test when it had to brave com- 
parison with the city of his dreams. 

While Tony’s eyes were still seeing the fairness of the New 
Jerusalem which was London, with all the hosts of angels and 
the splendour of God, with His chariot and His horses flying 
through the clouds, and the Great White Queen enthroned 
beside the Blessed Virgin, Alex stooped down and kissed his 
golden hair. 


96 


WITH OTHER EYES 


“Now, little son, mummy’s going to begin packing up. She’s 
got lots and lots to do, so Tony must be as good as gold and 
as quiet as a mouse.” 

The child looked up at her; her words had not reached him. 

Alex turned up his face with her two hands. “Does my 
precious son understand that if he wants to see London, he 
must be good and let mummy work?” 

“I was seeing God, mummy, and the Holy Mother’s wee 
Baby. She was just going to let me hold Him in my arms.” 
His eyes expressed reproach. “Bartholomew often sees God.” 

“I’m sorry, my son, but if you are very quiet and good you 
will see it all again.” 

“But perhaps the wee Baby will be asleep and the Blessed 
Virgin won’t let me wake Him. The new white baby at the 
Mission sleeps and sleeps and sleeps.” A fresh idea stormed 
his brain. “Mummy,” he cried, “why can’t we have a little 
baby? Can we get one in London? I do want one for my 
birthday. I want it more than anything in all the world, 
more than the iron engine at the Stores. Say yes, mummy.” 

“Mummy can’t promise, darling.” 

“But perhaps.” 

“London’s so wonderful, Tony, that there is no saying what 
we may find there.” 

“Then promise, mummy, that if a baby doesn’t cost too 
much, and Tony’s a very, very good boy, you’ll give him a 
baby in London?” 

Alex kissed his eyes * passionately. “You dear little son! 
If they were all like you, I’d like to have a hundred, however 
much they cost!” 

“Then say you’ll get me one, mummy, a London baby!” 

“What if I loved the baby better than Tony?” 

“But you couldn’t.” His words were a certainty. 

“Why not?” . 

“ ’Cos I’m your loveliest and most darling son. You can’t 
love two things best, the Padre says, so that’s why I have to 
pretend to him that I love God better than you. I don’t really, 
mummy, you needn’t mind. And I told God why I said it. 
He doesn’t mind — He’s awfully understanding and likes boys.” 

“He seems to, darling. Then you won’t be jealous of a new 
baby?” 


WITH OTHER EYES 


97 


“No, mummy, ’cos he’ll be mine too. We’ll get him together. 
I’ll tell Bartholomew that you’re going to London to see the 
Great White Queen and get a baby. It’s quite easy to get a new 
baby in London.” 

Alex fled. Work had to be done, and many things thought 
out and arranged. 

* * * * * * 

This scene in a Canadian forest took place while Evange- 
line and her mother were preparing to leave Grand Pre. Fate 
had destined that Alex and Evangeline were to travel across the 
Atlantic on the same steamer. 


CHAPTER II 


In South Wales, within motoring distance of the massive 
Norman tower of St. David’s cathedral and the romantic ruins 
of its Bishop’s Palace, lies Tregaron Manor, a stately house, 
in spite of its mixed periods of architecture. 

Tregaron hangs precipitously over a wild ravine. The river 
Tregaron rushes noisily through the ravine, whose steep and 
rocky sides completely hide its hurrying waters. Only a very 
high wind drowns its boom and roar. 

In the course of its long life Tregaron has been partially 
destroyed, twice by fire and three times by architects. One of 
these latter-day vandals, confident of his own genius, actually 
pulled down incomparable Tudor work, to build a memorial 
of his own debased art. To do this particular barbarian justice, 
it must be admitted that, generally speaking, the inmates of the 
house — especially if they are fidgety about their health — prefer 
living in his ugly portion of it. The west wing fortunately is 
still purely Elizabethan, and it is the most beautiful as well as 
the most noble feature of the house. Two fourteenth-century 
stone hounds, high on their square columns, guard the entrance 
to a paved courtyard at the back of the house, which was 
originally the front. These picturesque creatures mark the 
oldest portion of the building, which contains a long banqueting- 
hall, and an ancient tower. 

This oldest portion of the house is no longer used — no sun- 
shine ever enters it. It is, however, carefully preserved. The 
fine coat-of-arms over a fourteenth-century doorway inside the 
courtyard tells of the days when the splendour and the beauty 
which graced Tregaron used to enter it by that door. To-day it 
looks down upon servants and tradespeople, upon the workers 
who make life luxurious for the modern occupants of the Manor. 

But the glory and the incomparable romance of Tregaron, 
with its Celtic mixture of gaiety and sadness, lies primarily 
in its garden. It is very like the gardens in famous mediaeval 

98 


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99 


pictures, where solemnity and gaiety walk hand-in-hand, where 
stern yew hedges afford arbours cut out of their depth for the 
lighter moments of crusading knights. Gardens where ever- 
green arches span sunlit paths. It is a garden long and steep, 
for it was made out of a portion of the black ravine. Its 
designer stole it from Nature’s wildness, as the monks of old 
stole their gardens from dreary precipice wastes. 

The garden of Tregaron Manor is terraced from the splendid 
height on which the house is built, down to the rushing river, 
whose passionate waters have pushed their way through crag 
and fen with the infinite persistence of Nature. 

By the side of a sunny terrace-path flowers grew in such pro- 
fusion that looking down upon the garden from a great height, 
it seems as though a stretch of Tudor tapestry, taken from the 
banqueting hall, had been spread over a clearing in the dark 
and closely-wooded glen. 

There is nothing missing in Tregaron garden to complete a 
picture which words cannot paint. Dark arches throw their 
shadows on to the sunlit path, lend a touch of mystery to it, 
and bring into it that suggestion of sadness which is the self- 
created poetry of an ancient garden. There is nothing wanting 
but the romantic figures of the people of its romantic age. But 
alas both the garden and the house have mourned for many 
years the absence of the rightful owners of the estate. The 
garden has to be content with the admiration of aliens, and the 
house has to accustom itself to the ways of strangers. 

There is an ancient dovecote at the far end of the first ter- 
race, under its high wall. On this sunny afternoon white 
pigeons were masquerading as pompous humans along its yew- 
arched path. Their home is older than any portion of the house; 
and like many another dovecote, its age is lost in antiquity. It 
is one of those towers which are to be found scattered about 
Scotland and Wales, whose origin baffles architects. To the 
strutting pigeons, who alone peopled the garden, and whose low 
love-notes were seldom silent in the wild ravine, which runs to 
east and west of the gay garden as far as the eye could travel, 
the tower was erected for their sole use ; their need was its origin. 

When first the house was let to “new money,” there was such 
a fluttering and flustering in the dovecote as had never been 
before; for they were very conservative, these pigeons of the old 


100 


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tower, and they held to the manners and ways of the ancient 
regime; they resented the intrusion of people with new tones 
in their voices and new methods of distributing their worldly 
wealth. Wrong things done in the right way they were well 
accustomed to, for the owners of the Manor had never been 
blameless in their morals. The right things done in the wrong 
way they would not tolerate. They resented the irritating ad- 
miration of these enthusiastic people; who took nothing for 
granted; who exclaimed about every effect of Nature. And if 
they had only known it, at Tregaron Nature had been producing 
these same effects in the garden for centuries. If these new- 
comers had belonged to the place, or had belonged to any place 
at all, and were not quite new, they would have known this. 
Then why this persistent admiration? It annoyed the pigeons 
and made them fractious. They rudely ignored the handfuls 
of maize so persistently thrown to them ; they kept to their own 
quarters; for the last few weeks they had scarcely even deigned 
to pick up the crumbs left on the ground after a tea-party had 
been held in the summer-house, which had been made out of 
the lower portion of their tower. 

The household at Tregaron at the present moment consisted 
of a Mrs. McArthur, a pretty dark-eyed Southern American, 
and to whose voice the pigeons were scarcely fair. For Hebe 
McArthur had lived the greater part of her life in W ashington, 
and she had a quality in her voice which was pleasing. It was 
“not a bit American,” or so English people would tell you; 
but to those who knew, it was amusingly reminiscent of the fact 
that in her infancy a coloured nurse had first taught her to 
speak. The pigeons were probably confusing her with the 
American from New England who had lived in the house the 
summer before. 

Mrs. McArthur was a widow. Her elderly husband had died a 
few years after their marriage, leaving her a vast fortune and 
a pleasant memory of his goodness and devotion to her. Hebe 
had been very fond of Abe McArthur. During her short mar- 
ried life she had been contented and happy with the man who 
had offered her his heart and his great wealth at a crisis in her 
life, when poverty and obscurity stared her in the face. Her 
father had died suddenly at a State ball in Washington. When 
his affairs were examined, it was found that he had left abso- 


WITH OTHER EYES 101 

lutely nothing for the maintenance of his widow and daughter, 
both of whom had been brought up luxuriously. 

Hebe had married her elderly lover, partly to give her mother 
a luxurious home, and partly because she was afraid of poverty 
and of the fight for existence which faced her. And loyally she 
had played the game. Generously she had given, if abundantly 
she had taken. There was no happier man than Abe McArthur 
during his short married life. He idolized and guarded very 
tenderly his southern beauty. She was the apple of his eye. 

And now she was alone in the world, for her mother never 
recovered from the shock which she had received at her hus- 
band’s death; she died a few months after Hebe’s marriage. 

Hebe McArthur was born with a happy temperament and a 
generous nature. Her expression showed it. Her gratitude to 
the fates who had been kind to her shone in her warm smile; it 
showed itself in her attitude towards life. Her love of amuse- 
ment and pleasure was healthy and delightful. Very prac- 
tically, too, she showed her gratitude to that dispensation which 
had in so kindly a manner lifted her high above the grind of 
poverty, which had placed her in a world where money can 
agreeably administer to the things of the flesh, where material 
wants find their satisfaction. 

She was waiting now for the arrival of her guests. This was 
to be her first house-party in Tregaron Manor. The Mercedes 
car and the luggage motor had gone to the nearest station, which 
was fifteen miles away, to bring three of the party who were 
to arrive by the afternoon train. The trio consisted of Alex 
Hemingway, her son Tony, and a fellow-countryman of her 
own. 

Hebe had crossed the Atlantic with Alex and her little boy. 
By the end of the voyage they had become good friends — or 
perhaps, to put it more accurately, they had enjoyed each other’s 
society. Hebe’s complacent nature was soothing to Alex Hem- 
ingway, who confided her business project to her, and Hebe, 
amazed at her courage, promised to help her by sending to her 
boarding house any friends whom she thought would be suitable 
and who wanted rooms in London. Alex was facing what she 
herself had lacked courage to face. But then Hebe had no Tony 
to make all things worth while. 

There was an odd excitement for Alex in this visit to Tre- 


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garon Manor, an excitement which she kept to herself. It was 
a coincidence which would seem to others more like fiction than 
fact; yet it was a very real fact. She felt that she would get 
on well with Hebe McArthur, who knew something of her story 
— just as much as Alex had seen fit to tell her, that she had lost 
her husband very suddenly and that she was coming home to 
England for the boy’s sake. Hebe had made her promise that 
when she, Hebe, had found and established herself in the kind 
of country-house which she had in her mind’s eye, Alex and 
Tony would pay her a visit. 

As Hebe visualized Tony, and how his beauty and high 
spirits would humanize the old house above her, and the garden 
stolen from the ravine, he seemed to her an ideal heir to such 
a property. It was a lonely place, which only wealth could 
make homely or keep in touch with civilization. It was so 
outlandish that very few people would care to live in it except 
in the summer; and yet, for a wealthy proprietor, it was ideal. 

She sighed. The one thing which Abe’s wealth could not 
buy was Tony. 

In a green meadow, which had in its infancy been stolen 
from the garden, just as the garden had been stolen from the 
ravine, white ducks in a long straight row were waddling their 
way upwards from the river to the steep bank; they were coming 
for their evening meal. In the same smiling meadow at least 
fifty geese were busily eating up the sweet short grass. An air 
of great peace and plenty surrounded Hebe. 

“What a rest and treat for poor Alex Hemingway all this 
will be!” she said. “I wonder if she has ever stayed in such a 
beautiful house before, if she has ever enjoyed such an air of 
British peace and plenty as there is here? How I shall enjoy 
feeding her up with good country food, and spoiling her for 
a bit — I’m sure she needs it.” 

A loud toot-tooting of a motor told her that the party from 
the station had reached the last portion of the mile-long avenue 
which bordered the deep ravine. Like the garden terrace below 
it, and which ran parallel with it, the avenue was spanned at 
intervals by thick yew arches. 

Hebe McArthur’s habitually indolent walk quickened. She 
hurried with small steps along the path; she could not hurry 
with the free, swinging strides of Evangeline, or of any girl 


WITH OTHER EYES 


103 


reared in the North; her pace was suggestive of the life she had 
led. Hebe was perhaps a trifle too stout for her years from an 
English point of view, so she panted a little when she reached 
the top of the old brick stair which led up from the garden, but 
only a very little. Her breathlessness was suggestive of an 
inward excitement rather than of physical exertion. 

Her slender feet were the feet of a true daughter of the 
South; they had never been spoilt by rough walking, or by 
strong boots. Her movements were suggestively Southern, as 
was the sleeping fire which lay behind the pools of darkness 
in her eyes. 

Her pattering feet reached the avenue and almost her own 
doorstep just as the big car drove up before it. 

“Welcome to Tregaron l” she called out. “I’m ever so glad 
to see you.” Her smile gave sincerity to her words. 

Franklin Gibson sprang out of the car. 

“How do you do, Mrs. McArthur! What a beautiful place 
you have got here!” 

His American intonation was so slight that it would be doing 
him an injustice to suggest it, yet Franklin Gibson was, to look 
at and to listen to, a typical American, to those who know 
America. 

Hebe shook his hand warmly. Then she gave her attention 
to Alex Hemingway and her boy. 

For a moment Tony’s childish kisses almost smothered her. 
“Mrs. Carthur,” as he called her, was nearly as nice as the still 
longed-for and prayed-for Bartholomew. 

While Tony hugged her she held out her hand to Alex; her 
big eyes gave her a beautiful welcome. 

“Come right in,” she said, “and have some tea. I’m sure you 
must all be real starving.” 

She noticed that Alex was very pale and silent, and that she 
looked even more worn and physically exhausted than she had 
done when they parted. Alex made no remark about the house 
or the romantic beauty of its situation, as Hebe had expected her 
to do. Franklin Gibson, however, made up for her lack of 
enthusiasm. 

A bountiful tea was arranged on a round table in the big Hall. 
They sat down to the table for the comfort of Tony, and because 


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tea at Tregaron Manor was always “a quite meal,” as Hebe 
expressed it, for everyone was always hungry. 

Tony began chattering volubly. He was making up for his 
mother’s silence. He was, in his childish way, as delighted and 
impressed with his surroundings as Franklin Gibson. The 
spacious hall, the beautiful colouring of its ancient furniture 
and hangings, unconsciously appealed to the child’s love of 
harmony. 

Alex Hemingway sat on a high-backed Gothic chair, with 
her back to a large open fireplace, over whose mantelpiece hung 
a portrait of a lady by Peter Lely. It was a portrait of one of 
the bygone ladies of the Manor, one of the old regime of whom 
the pigeons so highly approved. Her gown was rich, and her 
hair was elaborately dressed; everything about her indicated 
breeding and a perfection of care bestowed upon her person. 
Alex, who sat directly underneath it, made a striking contrast — 
suggestive as she was of physical exhaustion, and need of per- 
sonal care. She was perfectly neat and as carefully dressed as 
possible, but she was certainly not bien soigne. And yet, curi- 
ously enough, when she took off her unbecoming motor-hat at 
Hebe McArthur’s request, and leaned her small head against 
the back of the old chair, Franklin Gibson found his eyes travel- 
ling backwards and forwards from the portrait of the silk- 
gowned lady, with the delicate Lely hands and the elaborately- 
dressed hair, to the tired woman — whose age he, greatly exag- 
gerated — was there a wayward resemblance between the portrait 
and the tired woman ? Perhaps it was only the same distinction 
of good breeding, which neither poor dressing nor physical 
weariness could conceal in Alex. She was unmistakably “it,” 
as Hebe expressed it to herself. 

Franklin Gibson was looking at her with a collector’s eyes. 
He had a passion for discovering badly-used beautiful objects 
and restoring them to their original state. He had a genius for 
recognizing the “ real thing.” He said to himself, as he watched 
Alex: 

“She’s the relic of a rare article. All this physical tiredness 
can be restored. Care and devotion would soon transform her. 
There’s a distinctive charm about her, behind all this faded 
womanhood.” 

He looked again at the portrait. Alex felt his gaze. She 


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105 


flushed. The picture of the luxurious lady embarrassed her. 
It made her conscious of the skimpiness of her gown; it brought 
to her mind the shop-girl’s remark: “It is a little skimpy for 
you, madam, but what can you expect for forty-nine and six?” 

Franklin Gibson noticed her uneasiness. He attributed it to 
his own lack of manners. He hastened to set her at her ease. 

“I’ve seen a good deal of England and Wales,” he said, “but 
I must admit that Mrs. McArthur has discovered the most 
romantic spot and the most ideal home I have ever been in. 
What do you think, Mrs. Hemingway? It’s not too large to be 
a true home, and yet it’s large enough to fire one’s imagination. 
Have you ever seen anything just like it anywhere else?” 

“No,” Alex said. “I think it is unique.” She turned to Hebe. 
“It looks beautiful this afternoon.” Her eyes dropped before 
the deep gaze of the sympathetic Hebe. “Are you satisfied ? Is 
it pleasant to live in ? Is it all that you were looking for ? Do 
you remember our talks on the boat? — your imaginary Castle 
of Indolence . . . the pictures we drew of it?” 

“Why, I just adore it! I should like to buy it.” 

“You haven’t bought it, Mrs. McArthur?” Franklin Gibson 
asked the question eagerly. 

“No,” Mrs. McArthur said, “it isn’t for sale.” 

“Maybe not.” He smiled. 

“But it just isn’t,” Hebe said. “I’ve enquired.” 

“Many things aren’t for sale, Mrs. McArthur, until you offer 
a fancy price.” He looked round the big hall. “My! but it 
must be vexing to have to let a house like this! To allow any 
stranger who can pay the price sit under these old family- 
portraits, and enjoy the lights on that Spanish leather! The 
family must be very hard up.” 

“I know little or nothing about them,” Hebe said. “I took 
it from the agent furnished for two years, with the option of a 
longer lease. I don’t wonder the family can’t afford to live in 
it or keep it up.” She smiled. “It takes some keeping up. I 
put away a lot of the oldest furniture, some of the Jacobean 
chairs. I don’t want to run any risks. They are very beautiful, 
but not comfortable, and I felt easier without them.” 

“Whom does the place belong to, any way? Who is that lady, 
do you know?” He pointed to the picture behind Alex. 

“Her name was Caroline Pontifex. I believe it’s a Lely.” 


106 


WITH OTHER EYES 


Tony, who had been enjoying his cake far too much to talk, 
looked up as the word “Pontifex” caught his ear. 

“Mummy has a story-book all about Gentle Jesus — it once 
belonged to a little girl called Caroline Pontifex, didn’t it, 
mummy?” 

Alex nodded in confirmation. 

“Why, have you any connection with the family, Mrs. Hem- 
ingway? — anything to do with these Pontifexes?” Franklin 
Gibson’s eyes were animated, his curiosity aroused. 

“Oh, no, I have nothing to do with them,” Alex said. “The 
Caroline Pontifex of my little book may have had — I forget 
how it came into my possession.” 

“Autocratic-looking woman!” he said. He gazed up at the 
picture. As his eyes fell on Alex, he said to himself, “This 
tired-looking woman, who travelled third-class all the way from 
London in a crowded train, isn’t one whit less proud, or less 
well-born.” 

His eyes looked at his hostess. Her soft, womanly beauty 
was very attractive. Her eyes reminded him of the stars in 
the Southern heavens in his American home. But the very 
costliness of her modern clothes helped to distance her from the 
undefinable air of high-breeding which Peter Lely had infused 
into the portrait of the unknown Caroline Pontifex. 

“There is something about English high-breeding,” he said 
to himself, “which can’t be imitated, and it’s what we can’t 
imitate that we Americans so hanker to possess.” 

He knew nothing of Alex Hemingway, or to whom she be- 
longed. He had learnt very little from her while they drove 
from the station together. She had been frank and friendly, 
but far from communicative. She had only spoken to him when 
he spoke to her. 

At the station he had introduced himself to her as a guest 
of Mrs. McArthur. They were to drive together to Tregaron 
Manor. Alex at first had tried to be polite and responsive, but 
her brain was too occupied with the problem of her visit and 
how it was to be carried off. Conversation had dwindled. The 
keen air had sent Tony to sleep. It was only when she was 
seated at the tea-table with her veil and motoring-hat off, and 
her beautiful boy by her side, that Franklin Gibson began to 
look upon her as a woman. He discovered suddenly that she 


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107 


interested him. His mind began its reconstructing habit. He 
was “doing her up.” She would respond to “treatment;” her 
tones and qualities would come out. He formed a picture of her 
after his work upon her, which meant comfort, ease, good food 
and lack of care, was completed. The picture was a very 
attractive one. 

Conversation for the rest of the time which was spent over 
tea was taken up with Hebe’s and Alex’s reminiscences of the 
voyage across the Atlantic. 

“The Sarsfields are coming to-morrow,” Hebe said, “so we 
shall be a cheery party. I have been planning some excursions 
which ought to be delightful if the weather keeps like this. Do 
you know St. David’s — the cathedral, I mean?” 

“When I was quite a girl, I was in this part of the country 
for a time,” Alex said, “but it was long ago, and yet I can 
remember St. David’s cathedral pretty distinctly, and the ruins. 
I was at the time greatly impressed by actually seeing the tomb 
of St. David.” She smiled. “Those were my convent days.” 

“The Sarsfields are coming on from Glastonbury,” Hebe said. 
“I suppose they will be hard to please. Isn’t Glastonbury the 
loveliest ruin you ever saw? I think it is.” 

“I have never seen it,” Alex said. 

“Never seen Glastonbury, and you an Englishwoman! Why, 
it’s the cradle of Christianity in England, isn’t it? And surely 
it lies just across the water from St. David’s?” It was Franklin 
Gibson who spoke. 

“You see, I was married and went out to Canada just after 
I left my convent school — I hadn’t time to ‘do’ England.” 

Hebe remembered that Alex had never cared to speak of her 
husband; it seemed as if she could not. So out of compassion 
for her young widowhood, she never dwelt upon the subject. 
Her tact was not unnoticed by Alex. 

“And you went straight out to Canada from your convent 
school?” Franklin Gibson said. He was ignorant of her late 
sorrow. 

“Yes, after a fortnight in Paris.” Alex smiled to herself. 
That fortnight had dissipated almost every farthing which her 
husband possessed, but it had been the most glorious two weeks 
of her life; it had been her one good time. 


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WITH OTHER EYES 


“You would like to come upstairs,” Hebe said, “and see where 
I have arranged to put Tony. I hope he will approve.” 

“I should like to wash his sticky hands,” Alex said, laugh- 
ingly. 

While they were at tea she had been asked to deliver up the 
key of her very modest luggage to a tall butler, who handed it 
over to a smart maid. The maid had unpacked her box and 
put her simple belongings into a huge chest of drawers and a 
capacious old wardrobe. 

When they entered the bedroom, Hebe said, “Tony is not to 
sleep here. I hope you will agree with my arrangement — I have 
engaged a remarkably nice girl to look after him. She has been 
under-nursemaid in a very good family, and I know Tony isn’t 
shy with strangers. He will be quite happy with her.” 

“Oh, but you shouldn’t have done that!” Alex said. “I 
always do everything for him — he has never had a nurse.” 

“That’s why I want you- to have a complete rest while you 
are here.” Hebe looked down at Tony, whose hand was tightly 
clasped in hers. “You will have such fun with Jenny, Tony — 
she’s just full of games and romps and all the things that boys 
like.” 

Tony smiled. “Perhaps this is like heaven, mummy. It’s 
the beautifullest place in all the world.” 

“I think it is heaven, with you in it,” Hebe said, “for you’re 
a perfect angel.” She hugged Tony as she said to Alex, “My 
dear, what a possession!” 

“I know,” Alex said. “I am never without the joy of it.” 

“Well, come and see his rooms,” Hebe said. “He’s not in the 
Tudor wing. I thought you would like to be, but I always think 
the newer portion of old houses better for children.” 

“I think so too,” Alex said, “but this is perfect.” She looked 
out past the strong stone mullion of the window, at the trees 
of the black ravine, and up at the high hill on the other side, 
where the sunshine caught the colour of a red sandstone quarry, 
which had been cut out of the mountainside. The quarry 
warmed the landscape, for above its ridge, yellow-broom glit- 
tered in the sunlight like pure gold. 

She turned abstractedly from the window and its wonderful 
view to follow her hostess. To Tony had been allocated a 
nursery, or rather play-room and a dining-room, and a bedroom 


109 


WITH OTHER EYES 

in the Victorian portion of the house, splendid rooms, admirably 
built, but totally lacking in the grace of proportion or dignity 
which appeals subconsciously to all lovers of architecture. 

Hebe had provided every imaginable sort of toy and pleasure 
which a child could desire. It would take Tony weeks to ex- 
haust their novelty. He was to be the king of an ideal child’s 
kingdom. 

He was so excited that Alex knew the exact nature of the 
reaction which would probably follow hard on his state of ex- 
cessive joy. 

When he ran to her side to demand her attention, to look at 
some new wonder, she lifted him up in her arms. As she did 
so, his eyes caught sight of a Medici coloured reproduction of 
Raphael’s Madonna della Sedia. 

Tony had not noticed the picture before. He had been too 
busily occupied with his wonderland of toys. As he looked at 
it, a pitiful smile crooked his childish lips. He struggled to 
keep back his tears. The next moment he was clinging to his 
mother in a passion of weeping, and Alex, nearly weeping her- 
self, was holding him closely to her heart. 

The Medici print was the picture in the Mission Chapel, 
which Tony loved beyond all others. It hung on an end-wall 
of the whitewashed schoolroom. 

“The wee Baby Jesus,” he sobbed, “the dear lickle .Jesus! 
And we’ve never seen him. Oh, mummy,” he wailed pitifully, 
“I want Bartholomew!” His sobs choked him. “I want the 
Padre and I want the Baby Jesus in the Chapel — I want to go 
home.” 

Tony sobbed and sobbed until Alex was weeping, and Hebe 
was half-distraught. 

“I want Bartholomew, and the woods!” the child repeated 
over and over again. “Mummy, mummy, do take Tony back! 
Oh, I don’t like England — England isn’t true, mummy!” His 
sobs choked him. “Do, do, mummy!” he moaned. “Take Tony 
back, to the big lake and the black bears ! Let Tony go back to 
Bartholomew — he’s the nicest man in all the world ’cept Padre.” 

“My darling, my darling,” Alex said, “you are going to be 
so happy here. Look at all these lovely toys Mrs. McArthur 
put in this big play-room for Tony!” 

“I don’t want them,” he said. 


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WITH OTHER EYES 


“Oh, Tony, how unkind of you!” 

“But I don’t want them, mummy. Ask her to give them to 
the poor lickle boys in London who have no Bartholomew and 
no big lake and no forest full of fairies.” 

Alex met Hebe McArthur’s smiling eyes. The child’s honesty 
amused them. 

“There is a forest here,” Alex said. “If you will stop crying, 
I will take you to it — a dark forest, with red rowan trees in it, 
and a rushing river running at the bottom of its steep, steep 
sides. It’s not a flat forest, like ours at home. It’s very dan- 
gerous, and in the river there is a secret cavern, where a giant 
lives, who hurls big stones at anyone who dares to go too near 
his home. Tony will hear the big stones making a horrible 
noise. And there are dear little red squirrels up in the trees, 
not grey ones, like ours, and sometimes big eagles swoop over 
the forest and frighten the tiny birds.” 

“And are there any fruits, mummy? And maple sugar?” 

“No, no maple-sugar, darling, but lots of wild strawberries 
and raspberries.” 

The child’s eyes brightened. “And is there a Mission Chapel 
with the wee Child Jesus lying in His manger-bed, and are 
there any half-breed hunters in the forest?” 

“Not in this forest, Tony, but in a town not very far away 
there is a beautiful chapel and a kind old Padre.” 

Tony was cheered, and his usual sweetness of expression 
asserted itself. His emotions were soothed. Mrs. McArthur 
looked at Alex with surprised eyes. She had not travelled across 
the Atlantic with Tony for nothing. It was Alex who had 
astonished her. 

“How well you described the glen,” she said, “and the Devil’s 
Cauldron and all the features of the river! You might have 
lived here. How did you know about it? Or was it all guess- 
work?” 

“I often heard of your famous glen and the Devil’s Cauldron 
in the old days, when I was at St. David’s. My father used to 
speak of it. But motors were not in common use in those days.” 

Mrs. McArthur did not notice the warmer tint which had 
suffused Alex’s pale cheeks, or the nervous expression in her 
eyes. 

“Besides,” she went on, “I have to play up to Tony’s imagi- 


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111 


nation. His baby heart is aching for Canada, for its forests, and 
for their mystery. They have a strange charm. Bartholomew, 
our Indian help, so filled his head with forest folk-lore that the 
world of reality is always a disappointment to the child. In 
Canada he really lived in fairy-land.” She paused, and then 
said, apologetically, “I think, if you will leave him alone with 
me for ten minutes — not more — he will be quite a different boy. 
He has been so awfully excited.” 

Mrs. McArthur wisely left the tired mother and the overstrung 
child to themselves and returned to her other guest. 

“Tony,” Alex said when they were alone, “mummy is awfully 
tired and not very well. Will you try to help her? She is 
wanting Tony’s care — only Tony can be any good.” 

Tony looked at her solemnly. “Not foxing, mummy?” 

“No, not foxing, Tony. Mummy wants to cry and cry and 
cry, just like Tony did, but she has to be brave and polite and 
show Mrs. McArthur how good and kind she thinks she has 
been, and how much she really loves her for her kindness.” 

“Yes, mummy.” 

“Will Tony try to be mummy’s big man, as well as her dear, 
helpful little son? Tony is the only person who can really help 
mummy. If he is brave and good then mummy can be brave 
and good, too. If Tony screams and cries and is naughty, then 
mummy will be so ill that she will have to go to bed. Do you 
understand, little son? All this is quite true.” Alex took his 
tiny hand and placed it on her own forehead. “The pain is 
there, Tony. It is very, very bad. And here, too.” She moved 
his hand to her heart and held it there in silence, while she 
gazed into his serious eyes. 

The child pulled himself together. He realized that his 
mother’s words were true. “Mummy, dearest, I’ll help you. I 
forgot.” He slipped down on his knees and folded his hands. 
“I forgot to be good.” 

Alex was accustomed to her boy’s impetuous, ardent prayers. 
They were as much a part of his childish life as his smiles and 
laughter. They were every bit as important to his nature, which 
demanded an emotional outlet. Tony prayed as he had been 
taught to pray at the Mission School. It was a pretty petition 
to the Blessed Virgin to help him to be a good boy and to give 


112 


WITH OTHER EYES 


him wisdom. It ended, with increased earnestness, in the same 
way as all his prayers ended: 

“Ah! Vierge sainte, ecoutez, avec cette tendresse que vous est 
propre, j’implore votre assistance par votre Fils adorable ” 

When Mrs. McArthur returned, the child was as good as gold. 
He went to Jennie, who instantly fell in love with his beauty 
and winning manners. His air of unquestionable breeding 
appealed to the girl, who had conservative ideas. No sur- 
roundings, however humble, could have robbed Tony of his 
unbuyable inheritance. 

When he was satisfactorily installed in his new quarters, 
Alex returned to her own bedroom. 

She was tired, tired, tired. Her face and body expressed her 
exhaustion. The luxury and comfort of her surroundings, and 
the beauty of the view which she looked at, with almost unseeing 
eyes, from her window, instead of soothing her senses, filled her 
with a nervous emotion, in which pleasure and anguish were 
inseparably mingled. 

She looked over the deep glen to the high hills at the other 
side; she looked right down at the soft old red-brick wall; she 
strained her eyes to catch a glimpse of the dovecote. She had* 
to brush away the tears from her eyes before she could see the 
strutting pigeons promenading along the garden-paths. 

“Tregaron Manor !” she said dreamily. “And I am here as a 
guest with Tony!” She stroked the grey stone of the mullion; 
her eyes searched again for the ancient tower. As she gazed 
at it, her hands fell in front of her; she clasped them tightly. 
“Mrs. McArthur would like to buy Tregaron, and so would that 
kind-eyed American, but the family won’t sell it!” A bitter 
laugh broke the stillness. “Americans think dollars can buy 
everything. How rich Hebe is!” As she spoke, she visualized 
her own boarding-house in St. Michael’s Square. 

Then a vision of Hebe, in her perfectly-cut tailor-made suit 
and her real lace blouse floated before her eyes. She looked 
down at her own ready-made black serge coat and skirt, and 
plain linen blouse. 

“My mourning for poor Larry!” she said. A smile lit up 
her face; there was a humour in the idea which only her own 
soul knew, and when humour came to Alex the situation was 
saved. “They miss something, after all, these millionaires,” she 


WITH OTHER EYES 


113 


said. “Dear Hebe, with all her affluence and her kind heart, 
has only lived on the surface of life — Hebe, the cup-bearer to 
the gods, the daughter of Juno! I think her name suits her. 
Her eyes are more like twin lakes of dark water — wood-lakes — 
than ever, and her Southern indolence is more sensuous. Hebe 
is very soothing.” 

Alex washed her face and hands, and ran a comb through 
her hair. It was not glossy, like Hebe’s, or expressive of much 
brushing and good care. Her eyes looked tired and her figure 
painfully thin, while Hebe was as rounded and as smooth in her 
femininity as one of the gleaming pigeons on the high red wall. 

Alex opened a wardrobe — there were two in her bedroom — 
and looked into it to see where the maid had put her clothes. A 
gingham dress hung from one peg; it was pale mauve, with a 
narrow black and white ribbon for its belt. That was for dainty 
occasions, when the days were warm enough. On another peg 
hung her evening dress; it was of some soft black material. 
These two gowns and the one she stood in comprised her outer 
wardrobe. 

Hebe’s appearance had made her feel its meagreness, but to 
Alex these things were trifles. Her lack of pretty gowns was 
not going to spoil her visit. Tony’s wardrobe was far better and 
ampler than her own; her maternal pride had seen to that. 

This visit was to be a magnificent interlude in her strenuous 
life, a building up of worn-out nerve-tissue. She knew that 
after she had recovered from her tiredness, she would enjoy 
every hour of it. She was determined to do so. 

When she came downstairs, she found Franklin Gibson and 
her hostess talking earnestly together. Suddenly the idea came 
to her that Hebe might have some feeling warmer than mere 
friendship for her fellow-countryman, who seemed to be on 
terms of intimacy with her, for Hebe looked a little embarrassed 
as she came into the hall. 

“What would you like to do?” she said, as she turned to Alex. 
“Go out for a little turn in the garden, or stay here and rest? 
Please do just as you feel inclined. You are to feel perfectly 
free here to do what you like.” 

Alex turned longing eyes to a comfortable Chesterfield. Its 
cushioned seat looked as soft as a down pillow. She knew that 


114 


WITH OTHER EYES 

its length would take her long limbs, stretched out to their 
fullest. She was too tired to care about anything else. 

“I should like to stay here,” she said laughingly, “if I really 
may do what I want to do most.” 

“I think you are wise,” Hebe said. “Lie down on the sofa 
and shut your eyes. I will take Mr. Gibson for a stroll in the 
garden — he is longing to explore it, and to see the house from 
the outside — the Tudor wing and the still older part at the back 
are worth inspecting.” 

“Every side of it,” he said. “I want to study every portion 
of it.” He turned to Alex. “You English people haven’t the 
same passion for old buildings as we have. You can take them 
for granted; I can’t, not yet — I don’t expect I ever shall. Now, 
if I owned a place like this, I should always consider it a privi- 
lege to live in it, my thoughts would bow to it all day long. If 
I were dead-tired, I couldn’t lie down in here and rest as you 
are going to do, no, I could not, not until I had got some of this 
. . . emotion, you may term it, off my chest.” 

“I’m not unappreciative,” Alex said. “Please don’t think 
so. And even though I am English, you must remember that 
I have lived in a Canadian forest for the last six years. This 
is a great contrast.” 

“I know that,” he said, “but all the same, the age and the 
spirit of England are in your bones. Old stones and great 
buildings were known to you before the forest clearing. You 
were taken, you say, as a child, to see St. David’s. We Ameri- 
cans, like the Moslems in their desire for Mecca, wait and wait 
with the longing in our hearts to go to these places while we 
are young.” 

Alex flung herself down on the soft-cushioned Chesterfield. 
Her abandonment was a sort of protest. 

“I believe you are far more romantic than we are,” she said, 
“but I wonder if you know what being bodily tired really means 
— so tired that nothing else matters?” 

The American was emotional. As he looked at the slender 
woman, who seemed to be yearning to stretch herself out with 
still more abandonment on the comfortable sofa, something in 
his throat stopped him speaking. A physically tired woman 
hurt his ideals. With a deep bow he turned and left her. 


115 


WITH OTHER EYES 

“For pity’s sake,” he said to Hebe when they were out of 
hearing, “whoever has neglected that poor soul so terribly?” 

Hebe shook her head. Alex’s exhaustion had touched her 
kind heart. 

“There is something glowing, all the same, about her, some- 
thing that kindles and comes to life now and then. Do you 
notice what I mean? There is a strange fire in her soul.” He 
paused, and then said: “What age do you suppose she is, 
anyhow?” 

“She was married, vur-ry, vur-ry young” — Hebe gave the 
pretty Southern roll to her “very” — “and her boy is only five.” 

“Is he her first child?” 

“Yes, I imagine so. Why not?” 

“Whew! Is that so?” His American voice expressed sym- 
pathy. “She has had some trouble,” he said. “Been up against 
a good deal, I fancy?” 

“I think so,” Hebe said, “but she is very reserved and very 
plucky — reserved, I mean, about what she means to hold back.” 

“I know,” he said. “I understand. I can gather that. Her 
apparent candour is a little misleading just at first.” 

“She has only lately lost her husband. She can’t bear to 
speak of him. I fancy he left her almost without a cent, but 
she’s all pluck and spirit.” 

“What is she doing now? I mean, when she isn’t here?” 

“She is going to take boarders. She has settled on a house 
in London. Its drainage wanted seeing to, or she would be 
there now.” 

“Is that so?” he said. “She wasn’t reared, I fancy, for that 
sort of life. But that’s a bright boy of hers.” 

Hebe’s eyes became reflective. She was thinking of the period 
in her own life when she had had to face the future — a future 
of almost greater poverty than Alex’s. A great pity and longing 
to help her came to her. She herself had been saved from pov- 
erty by the love and generosity of a good, kind husband. If only 
Franklin Gibson would fall in love with Alex, how splendid it 
would be! As she pictured the tired, worn Alex, she sighed. 
Perhaps she was not the sort of woman that a very rich man 
would desire to marry? Besides, Evangeline was to arrive to- 
morrow, and Evangeline . . . ! Then she smiled, for she 

heard Franklin Gibson say: 


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WITH OTHER EYES 

“Doesn’t the very sight of her make you long to help her, to 
bring her back to her original state? Don’t you feel how very 
interesting it would be to see her gradually responding to your 
care and attention ?” 

Hebe laughed her full Southern laughter. “Why, my friend, 
you are thinking of her as you think of your latest art-treasure ! 
You can almost imagine that you have found her at your won- 
derful Caledonian Market, or in some old shop in the King’s 
Road, Chelsea. You want to ‘do Alex Hemingway up’ to re- 
store her.” 

“I feel like that,” he said. “I see something of the old master 
in her, something very fine.” He paused. “To me she looks 
badly nourished. Don’t she to you?” 

“I am going to do the best I can for her,” Hebe said. “I 
shall insist on breakfast in bed for the first week, and plenty 
of milk and beef-tea and every sort of feeding thing I can 
procure. I will make her take some nourishment every two 
hours.” 

“I’m sure you will,” he said. His voice was sincere, but Hebe 
detected in it a twinge of regret. 

“You wish you had the oiling and beeswaxing to do, don’t 
you, sir-ree?” 

They had reached the garden, when their conversation 
changed. The tired Alex was forgotten in the colour and ro- 
mance of the ancient terraces and gay flowers. 

Franklin Gibson was so delighted that he said more than 
once to his hostess: “I must thank you again for giving me this 
pleasure. I feel that it is a very great privilege to stay in such 
a charming home. It is a privilege, and I don’t want to forget 
that.” 

Hebe threw a handful of maize to the pigeons; she always 
carried some in a silk bag which hung from her arm. The 
pigeons ignored it; turning tail, they ran along the path right 
in front of the two Americans. 

“Over- fed,” Franklin Gibson said. “Do you give them maize 
every time you pass them, Mrs. McArthur?” 

“They are ‘sassy’ things,” she said. “They sit on Andrew — 
the gardener’s — head and shoulders while he works, and they 
take com — my com — out of his mouth. And yet when I try 


WITH OTHER EYES 117 

to coax them, they behave like that — turn their little backs on 
me every time.” 

“Birds are odd things,” he said. “As a rule I can do what 
I like with them. But then you have to be very quiet and 
patient; they may show annoyance, you mayn’t. In my home in 
Maryland I get along with them first-rate. They seem to under- 
stand me and my ways.” 

“These sassy things,” Hebe said, “always make me feel an 
interloper, a mere modern. I can’t say just why.” 

“That tired girl,” Franklin Gibson said, “is very English. 
She fits all right into a place like this, don’t you think?” 

Hebe laughed. “Better than I do, you mean?” 

“Well,” he said, “your natural background is a big old man- 
sion of the Southern plantation style. You want the South. 
That girl wants these stern, tall pines in that dark wood; she 
wants the high hills and the wild passes. You want the dolce- 
far-niente of a warm land. Temperamentally you are Southern.” 

“I believe you are right,” Hebe said. “I could do with a 
moonlight picnic under the golden stars at home, and the scent 
of orange-flowers at sundown. Sometimes I get vur-ry home- 
sick. Do you, Mr. Gibson?” 

“No,” Franklin Gibson said, “I can’t say I do. I never have 
time to feel lonely over here. Things keep crowding in on me, 
things to do and things to see. My! but this country, Mrs. Mc- 
Arthur, is crammed full of beautiful houses and castles and 
cathedrals. Every county in England has some special feature 
of its own. And yet very few English people go to see their 
local monuments. In Italy English people are much more in- 
terested in ancient things than they are at home. I’ve noticed 
that, and when they have any intelligence at all about such 
things, it generally goes deeper than ours.” 

“What all the world can see, no one ever looks at,” Hebe said 
laughingly. 

“I suppose that explains it. When the English are in Rome 
they feel that they may never be there again, and so they rush 
off and see every Roccoco church and Pope’s fountain in the 
city.” 

Tony and his nurse were playing with the pigeons, which 
had gathered round the child as if he had grown up in their 


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WITH OTHER EYES 


midst. One was sitting on his shoulder and another was perched 
on his tiny wrist. Tony was in ecstasies. 

“Now, look at that,” Hebe said. “Did you ever? The sassy 
things! If I go near them, they will walk away — now see if 
they don’t.” 

When they got near the child the pigeons ruffled their 
feathers and behaved as Hebe had said they would. They 
instantly left the child’s wrist and shoulder and, turning their 
backs on the party, strutted up the path. Tony ran after them, 
laughing delightedly. He had forgotten his brief storm of 
forest-lust in the wonders of the garden. Jennie, his nurse, was 
an admirable companion. 

“A chip of the old block!” Franklin Gibson said. “If that 
youngster was bom in the Canadian forest, he is still a typical 
bit of England. Why, already he looks as if he had been bom 
here, and as if he owned the whole place. There’s that air about 
him that made Mark Twain say that Christ must have meant 
the English when He said ‘The meek shall inherit the earth,’ 
Witty, wasn’t it? He did hit off the idiosyncrasies of the 
various nations — and so good naturedly.” 

Hebe laughed. “Oh, I think Mark Twain was delightful. I 
wish America would give us another like him, don’t you?” 

“He was a martyr to dyspepsia — did you know? — and yet 
he has made more people laugh than any other writer. That 
tired girl has humour,” he said. “I expect it has helped her 
some.” 

“Mrs. Hemingway?” Hebe said. “Why, yes, she has plenty 
of humour when she isn’t as tired as she is to-day.” 

“I wonder when that is?” he said pensively. “I wonder if 
she ever feels rested? Do you imagine she is asleep at this 
moment?” 

“I will go and see,” Hebe said, “before we go to the oldest 
part of the house. I can peep at her without disturbing her.” 

“Her boy is going to have a fine time here, just the time of 
his life.” 

Tony was still trying to catch the pigeons. His childish 
laughter rang through the garden. Something in Hebe suffered 
each time she heard it. Tony was all her soul hungered for. 
She had money enough to shower every blessing on him if he 
had been hers. 


WITH OTHER EYES 


119 


When she left Franklin Gibson to take her peep at Alex, the 
serious American stood lost in thought. It was strange how his 
desires and sympathies had gone out to this old house, hidden 
away in the Welsh hills. It had already become a thing which 
he hungered to possess. He would pull down the Victorian 
portion of it, and rebuild it in the Tudor style of the west wing. 

While he was thinking, and visualizing, Hebe had taken her 
peep at Alex. 

When she returned to her guest, she said, “She is deliciously 
at rest. You never saw such a picture of abandonment in your 
life.” 

“Is that so? That son of hers amuses me.” 

“Alex has the gift of giving herself over to the demands of 
the moment. Her boy is safe; she needs sleep and rest. She 
has taken it. She has a big nature; she never frets or worries 
unnecessarily. It was like that on board ship. If Tony was 
safe and there was no reason to worry, she used to keep us all 
in fits of laughter. She seemed to forget everything. She has 
forgotten everything now. Asleep she looks years younger and 
far better-looking, poor soul!” 

“I can believe that,” Franklin Gibson said. He was pensive; 
his big, clean-shaven face, keenly sensitive and emotional, 
smiled sympathy. “I just hate,” he said fervently, “to think of 
any woman, far less one gently reared, having to fight the world 
alone.” 

“I think Alex Hemingway minds it less than many women. 
She has rare pluck, and, in a way, she enjoys the gamble.” 

“She is a rare plucked ’un, I can see that. But all the same, 
there’s a lot in every woman that wants the strong arms of a 
man, that cries out for protection. My American soul feels like 
that about every woman. I like to see them the heads of refined 
homes, doing their best work in refining us men.” 

“You’re a dear, Franklin!” Hebe said. “You have the true 
American worship for women.” 

“I have that,” he said. “I inherited it from my father. Mine 
was a beautiful home. No money, mind you, but a rich atmos- 
phere of reverence and soul-culture.” 

“I wonder what you will think of my other guests?” Hebe 
said. “By this time to-morrow they will be with us — Evangeline 
Sarsfield and her mother. They are true Canadians— they 


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come from the country of Evangeline, from the valley of Grand 
Pre. They are as strikingly individual in their way as Mrs. 
Hemingway is in hers.” 

“Is that so? I never got to Nova Scotia, but I have dreams 
of seeing that valley before I die. My!” he said emotionally, 
“isn’t there a fine world to see yet?” 

“Evangeline is a young Amazon, as straight and tall and 
slim and fleet of foot as the Indians in her valley. Her mother 
is rather a foolish little bit of Dresden china — at least, I think 
so. She has no ideas of her own. Evangeline absolutely rules 
her. I wonder she isn’t more spoilt than she is.” 

“Don’t you like Evangeline?” he asked. 

Hebe puckered her brows. “I admire her awfully,” she said, 
“and, yes, I do really like her, vur-ry much, or I shouldn’t have 
asked her here. But sometimes,” she laughed, “well, sometimes 
I could slap her.” 

“Is that so?” Franklin Gibson laughed. “Then I guess she 
needs it.” 

“Well, on board ship she played hide-and-seek with the 
dearest-hearted man you ever saw — with his heart, I mean.” 

“And how did she do that?” 

“Well, when Bliss Bethune hid it safely away out of her 
sight, she went and dragged it out just like a dachshund after 
truffles. Then when she had got it, she didn’t want it. She 
just threw it back again in his face. Oh, she was a naghty 
gurl.” 

“Foolish young man!” Franklin Gibson said. “Any woman 
will do that if the man will let her. It was his own fault. She 
was just playing the sweet old game.” 

“Oh, but you haven’t seen Evangeline’s eyes.” She paused. 
“You just wait until you’ve seen them. He hadn’t a chance.” 

“Are they something to be afraid of?” 

“Have you ever seen blue gentians in Switzerland, just peep- 
ing out of the snow on the Alps, when the spring is in the year?” 

“I should say there was nothing bluer,” he said. 

“Then they are Evangeline’s eyes.” 

“Pretty bad for any man, I should say!” 

“They quite do for me,” Hebe said. “I just forgive her 
anything, when she uses them to make me sorry.” 


WITH OTHER EYES 121 

“I must be on my guard,” Franklin Gibson said. “I’m as 
weak as a kitten over blue eyes.” 

They had reached the back of the house, and for the next 
twenty minutes the ardent Franklin was absorbed in its an- 
tiquity. 

The big dogs at the courtyard entrance, on their high ped- 
estals, greeted him with their habitual expression of “take care.” 
The old banqueting hall and the hidden tower made his bowels 
yearn for the privilege of ownership. This neglected portion of 
the house was so desolate, so pathetically different from the 
front and the west wing. He felt very sorry for it. It might 
have been miles and miles away from the warm humanity and 
brightness of the front of the house. 

“I will leave you here,” Hebe said, “for my feet never will 
carry me for very long at a spell. I’m just longing to sit down, 
and I know you will be perfectly happy wandering about at 
your own free will.” 

“Is there anything written about the house?” he asked. “I 
should very much like to go into its history.” 

“I’ve not discovered anything, but I haven’t tried very hard. 
You can search the library and see — there’s quite a good one, 
I believe.” 

“Thank you,” he said. “And for the present I’ll read my 
own meaning and romance into these old stones. It’s a great 
privilege you have given me, Mrs. McArthur. I appreciate it 
very highly.” 


CHAPTER III 


The house party at Tregaron Manor was proving a great suc- 
cess.* Hebe McArthur had the gift of true hospitality and a 
genius for making her guests feel at ease. 

One week had elapsed, and during that time the small party 
had become intimate with each other and with their surround- 
ings. 

“If you keep on feeling like strangers, or visitors, in my 
house,’ 7 Hebe had said to Evangeline’s mother, who felt a little 
shy and unaccustomed to her hostess’s modem way of taking 
life and of entertaining her guests, “then we shall all get dread- 
fully on one another’s nerves and weary of even this beautiful 
place. People can’t stand on their hind legs all the time, Mrs. 
Sarsfield. You must feel that what I really want you to do is 
just what you like best — stay in bed all day, or sit up all 
night — only don’t, for pity’s sake, keep on asking yourself what 
you think I should like when I ask you if you want to do this 
or that. Just be brutally frank, same as Tony is. Children 
save a lot of trouble.” 

Alex Hemingway had responded whole-souledly to Hebe’s 
wise counsel. She had done just what she wanted to do for 
the whole week, and that was rest and sleep and eat. She had 
made her first appearance each day at tea-time, and ten o’clock 
saw her back again to bed. 

Her “angel’s visits,” as Evangeline called them, were ex- 
tremely effective. They made amusing interludes, to which 
the party unconsciously looked forward, for Alex’s wit, which 
sometimes could be very sharp, became more keen as her 
physical strength improved, and it was improving with the 
rapidity of youth. 

In spite of her seeming frankness and friendliness, Alex 
managed to hold herself aloof, to become less rather than 
better-known to the party. Intimacy with her seemed impos- 
sible. She was a looker-on, while the others lived — or, rather, 

122 


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WITH OTHER EYES 

one might say amused themselves. She appeared unconscious 
of the fact. It was simply expressed by her personality. Their 
life of idle pleasure was a thing so far apart from her own that 
she could not feel its reality; it amused her to watch their busy 
idleness. 

The blue-eyed Evangeline’s form of enjoyment for the time 
being was evidently casting her line for the American money- 
fish. 

When she was not amusing herself with Tony or flirting with 
Franklin Gibson, her mornings were passed in roaming the 
countryside with her long stride and wild, free spirit. She 
spent enchanted hours in the Wales from whence King Arthur 
set out for England. Wales was to her “the land of music and 
mountain, of rock and romance, of lake and legend.” From 
the cottage people she learned the local legends, and began to 
understand something of their psychology. 

Hebe, like Alex, let the fresh, clear morning-air slip by with 
her head still under the bed-clothes. She slept like a curled-up 
sand-louse. 

The luxurious Mercedes car had taken them lengthy drives 
each afternoon, but all serious sight-seeing had been postponed 
until Alex Hemingway felt strong enough to wish to join the 
party. 

Evangeline found herself conscious of the fact that she was 
not getting to know the real Alex Hemingway, that their talks 
and discussions drew them no nearer together. She was in 
her secret soul a little annoyed by the fact that Franklin Gibson, 
who was a slave to her eyes and to her physical beauty, seemed 
more interested in the tired Alex than he was in herself. The 
something which no one could reach in Alex made him unsettled, 
even while Evangeline’s beauty piped the tune to which he 
danced; but no one can dance for ever. When she was not 
piping, his interests returned to the woman who had exhausted 
her youth. She appealed to his more tender senses. It was 
the shadow-woman in Alex, the will-o’-the-wisp glow in her, 
which, appearing and disappearing, enabled Franklin Gibson 
to keep his head against the pretty languishment of Evangeline’s 
eyes. 

A week of luxury and complete rest, with the best of country 
food, amid beautiful surroundings, had done a great deal for 


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Alex. Once or twice, in the half-lights, he had caught a 
glimpse of the girl as she had been, and as she could be again, 
if the luxury and care of her present surroundings were always 
at her disposal. 

This afternoon she was sitting again as she had sat on the 
day of her arrival, below the Peter Lely portrait, which hung 
over the mantelpiece in the hall. It was tea-time and the day 
was warm. She was dressed in her mauve and white frock, 
with its waist-band of black-and-white striped ribbon. It 
suited her admirably. To Franklin Gibson it was a charming 
gown. A man is satisfied with the effect of a gown ; a woman is 
unsatisfied unless that effect is costly. 

Alex was growing nervous of Franklin Gibson. She saw his 
obvious admiration for Evangeline, his almost helplessness 
under the charm of her eyes; but she knew that her own power 
over him went deeper than that. More than once he had be- 
trayed what she did not care to know. It was so slight, so 
indefinite, so undefinable, and yet it was there. There was 
just this about it: that if she had chosen, Evangeline would 
not have counted. Tired and pale as she was beside the vital 
girl, she knew, by the Eve who is in every woman, that if she 
chose to do even what Evangeline was doing, she could make 
Franklin Gibson her slave as he never would be Evangeline’s. 
This was no vanity on her part, but a very unwished-for super- 
knowledge. With all her pallor and lost youth she knew that 
she could keep the fly from slipping into the web which the 
callous Evangeline was weaving. If his feet touched it, he 
would be lost. As her confessed lover, no man could have 
resisted the sweet wildness of Evangeline. 

Alex knew this. But she also knew that while he was free, 
while his feet had not yet been caught in the delicate web, 
there were unknown qualities in him which were for her, and 
not for Evangeline. She had learnt something of this on the 
afternoon of their first meeting. 

Alex did not take much trouble to understand Evangeline. 
On board ship she had been a lovely, spoilt bit of youth, 
peeping into a world of pleasure and romance. Alex had 
been charmed with her freshness, and with her eager antici- 
pation of all which the old world was to give her. Now there 
seemed to be something a little harder about the girl, some- 


WITH OTHER EYES 


125 


thing older, and more worldly-wise. Or was it merely a pose 
of youth? Was she playing with the rich American to amuse 
herself, or was she in earnest? Was she out for conquest? 

There was one thing which Alex liked very much about her 
— her affection for her mother, and her womanly understanding 
of her mother’s second blooming, her pleasure in her mother’s 
happiness. 

Evangeline had just returned, from a long walk, one of her 
solitary roamings. The romance of the hills was still in her 
eyes; the scent of Wild Wales clung to her garments. Her 
appetite for tea was enormous. When she had seated herself 
at the table she said, quite suddenly: 

“How extraordinarily like you are to that portrait, Mrs. 
Hemingway.” She eyed the Peter Lely. “I never noticed it 
before.” 

Alex smiled. “How nice of you to think so! That is be- 
cause I have on a new frock — fine feathers make fine birds.” 

Franklin Gibson looked at Alex and then at the picture. 
“You grow more like that portrait every day,” he said, 
“strangely like.” 

“Let’s dress up,” Evangeline said, “dress up like all the 
fine portraits in this house. I’ll be the Lady Hamilton — or, 
rather Emma Hart — in the long gallery; you’ll be that Peter 
Lely — la belle dame sans merely I should say, judging by 
her very haughty expression. May we, Mrs. McArthur? Who 
will you be?” 

“Why, what a great idea!” Hebe said. “What will you 
be, Mr. Gibson?” 

Alex Hemingway turned to him. “You should be the Oliver 
Cromwell in the library.” 

“But why so?” he asked. “When I see all these beautiful 
ruined abbeys and churches in England, I just feel that I 
hate that cold reformer, with his plain clothes and plain mind.” 

“But you are a Puritan at heart, Mr. Gibson,” Alex said. 
“You are the type of the Puritan.” 

“Of a religious persecutor! Why, isn’t that unkind?” 

“No — far from that — of an idealist, of the other and greater 
side of Cromwell’s character, the reformer, the idealist.” 

“I’m glad you have eased my mind,” he said. “You don’t 
understand me if you think I can tolerate anything like in- 


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tolerance or religious persecution. All religions are ideals, and 
who has any right to insult them?” He smiled. “I don’t 
think I’ll be Mr. Cromwell, if you don’t mind. I’ve been in 
Ireland; I’ve seen things from an Irish point of view. There 
is an association there with his name which won’t lend itself 
to gaiety, Mrs. Hemingway, and if we dress up we must play 
the children’s merry game.” 

“Very well,” Alex said. “I really agree with you — Crom- 
well certainly did not add to the gaiety of nations, even 
though he personally was not the destroyer of ecclesiastical 
buildings. Who will you be, Mrs. McArthur?” 

“Oh, I know,” Evangeline said, “you must be that lovely 
Spanish woman in the long gallery, with the black fan — the 
one after Velasquez.” 

“It would just suit you, Mrs. McArthur.” He looked at 
his hostess. “It never struck me before — you are very Spanish.” 

“So I’ve been told,” Hebe said, “but I only feel American.” 
She laughed. “It’s a safer feeling, I imagine.” 

“And I certainly don’t feel like that autocratic lady up 
there,” Alex said, “although you all seem to see a likeness. I 
can’t imagine feeling as she looks, can you?” 

“That expression’s dying out,” Franklin Gibson said. “It 
belonged to an autocratic, despotic age, that is passing away.” 

“If Tony may stay up a little later,” Hebe said, “we will 
all dress up for dinner one night and he can join in the fun 
afterwards.” 

“Then Tony must be that darling Gainsborough,” Evan- 
geline said. She pointed to a portrait of one of the Pontifex 
children, a typical example of the beauty and refinement of 
the English aristocracy of the painter’s day. “When shall we 
do it ? What fun it will be ! We must all live up to our parts !” 

“Yours will be a very easy one,” Alex said. “The fair 
Emma needed only her beauty to make Nelson her adoring 
slave.” 

“Oh, but she had brains,” Evangeline said, “and she used 
them for England, don’t forget that.” 

“Yes, for England,” Franklin Gibson said. “With all her 
faults she was loyal and patriotic, a wonderful woman.” 

“One thinks first of her beauty,” Alex said, “and of 
Nelson’s weakness in her hands. She cast a spell over him.” 


127 


WITH OTHER EYES 

“He recognized the splendid woman she was beneath all 
her faults, which were the result of her up-bringing, of her 
youthful surroundings, and most of all of the treatment she 
received from Greville. I never could tolerate that man! I 
feel like murder when I think of a man behaving badly to a 
woman who trusts and loves him.” 

“I don’t think I know enough about the inner life of the 
famous beauty,” Alex said. “I always think of her as the 
model for all Romney’s most enchanting pictures.” 

“My!” Franklin Gibson said. “She was more than that! 
She played a big part for England. But the puritanical 
English have never acknowledged what she did for them. 
Their petty conventions and ready-made virtue see no deeper 
than the fact that she was what they chose to call an immoral 
woman. Nelson’s loving, beautiful Emma was something far 
greater than that. Her trust in Greville, the man whom she 
idealized and loved, was shamefully abused. He behaved like 
a cad; he handed her over to Sir William Hamilton as if she 
had been a bit of his bric-a-brac.” Franklin Gibson paused. 
“She was his best piece, his most rare find, and he threw her 
back again into the mud.” 

Hebe looked at the American with meaning in her eyes. 
“If you had found her, you wouldn’t have parted with her. 
Oh, you dear man, a beautiful woman needs no apologia to 
you!” 

“Greville found her in very humble circumstances, and re- 
fined and educated her up to his standard, to be a companion to 
himself. The girl worshipped him for having lifted her out 
of the mud, so to speak; he was her ideal of a splendid English 
gentleman. Then what did he do? He handed her over to 
his relative, who had taken a fancy to her. Emma went to his 
uncle believing that she was going to study music in Naples. 
It makes my blood boil to think of it! Naturally, after that, 
what trust had she left for anybody? Then when Nelson came 
along, with his little body and great heart, laying his honour 
and his love at her feet, giving her a worship which was almost 
divine, was there any wonder that she forsook the elderly man 
who had taken her over like a bad debt? Was there any wonder 
that she accepted the grande passion which Nelson offered her?” 

“And I have to be all that?” Evangeline said. “I think I’ll 


128 


WITH OTHER EYES 


change my mind. I only wanted to be the laughing Bacchante 
who bewitched England’s great hero.” 

“Well, so you can,” he said, “for at the time in her life when 
Romney painted that laughing girl, she had only laughter in 
her heart; the bitterness had not entered it. Emma’s real 
nature was generous and great.” 

Evangeline blushed, but no one knew why. Could she act 
the part of bitterness too? Had the pure gladness of her old, 
laughter-loving days, the laughter of Grand Pre, changed? 
What was the game which she was playing now, this trapping 
of the emotional American by her beauty? 

“You must give me a day or two to get some things sorted 
out to dress us all up in,” Hebe said. “I will see what we can 
find in Tenby, on our way to St. David’s. We can go that way 
if we make an early start. My maid is as cute as a monkey — 
she’ll love showing her skill. She hasn’t enough to do here 
any how.” 

“So St. David’s is settled, is it?” Franklin Gibson said. 
“I’m very glad to hear that you feel strong enough for the 
excursion, Mrs. Hemingway. That’s ever such good news.” 

Alex laughed. “By the time that Mrs. McArthur has done 
with me, I shall be a female Samson, or like a fat woman at 
a fair. Do you know, she feeds me on something every two 
hours, and I’ve slept the round of the clock every night since 
I’ve been here, and lain in bed for the greater part of each day ! 
What a waste it is, in such a beautiful place, and in this fine 
weather! Don’t you think I’m disgraceful, Mr. Gibson?” 

“If you feel like that it shows you’re getting better,” Hebe 
said. 

“The spiritual man is reasserting itself,” Franklin Gibson 
said. 

And he was right. The physical demands of Alex’s being 
had at first drowned the spiritual. The smell of the pine- 
woods and the hurrying clouds mattered nothing in comparison 
with the demands of her body for soft cushions and superb 
idleness. With bodily restoration, came a reawakened interest 
in the world outside her luxurious bedroom. The romance of wild 
Wales became a visionary background to her reviving energies. 
It was good to know that the hills were there, and a far horizon; 
that the dark sides of the ravine towered over precipice heights. 


WITH OTHER EYES 


129 


The possession of this knowledge was delightful. She played 
with it in her mind, while her body was still seduced by soft 
couches and strengthening foods. At first this wonderful 
world beyond her window had been very dim. Thinking about 
it had fatigued her. The swift clouds, the wind in the woods, 
the ceaseless energy of the rushing torrent, were strenuous 
things. The force of Nature got into her head and unnerved 
her. She had to turn her back on these hurrying, impetuous 
energies, which thrust themselves upon her sensuous indulgence 
and forgetfulness. 

But gradually she came to desire them. Good food and 
luxury were only a means to an end; they were not the things 
for which she existed. That period had passed. Now the idea 
of the wild fresh wind on her forehead vitalized her; a week 
ago it had crumpled her up physically. To-day she would go 
hatless to some high crag, and listen to the voices of the earth. 

Mrs. Sarsfield had not made one of the party at tea while 
the discussion had taken place about the living pictures. When 
she came into the hall, apologizing for what there was never 
any need to apologize for at Tregaron Manor — being late for 
tea — there was a cry of: 

“Oh, who will Mrs. Sarsfield be?” 

“Come along, Mrs. Sarsfield,” Hebe said, “we have got a 
splendid idea of amusing ourselves I We’re all going to be 
very young, and dress up.” 

“That’s not very difficult for mamma,” Evangeline said, 
“for I’ve never allowed her to grow up. Mamma has to keep me 
young. When she grows old, I shall be Methuselah.” 

“Oh, Eve!” Mary Sarsfield said. “You don’t know how 
old I feel, or how young.” 

“Just as young as you look, madam,” Franklin Gibson said 
gallantly, as he handed her a cup of tea. A servant who must 
have been lying in wait for Mrs. Sarsfield’s appearance, had 
already brought in a small silver teapot and fresh hot cakes. 
Servants at Tregaron Manor administered to the wants of 
guests like attendant sprites. Evangeline had declared once 
that if she was not allowed to do something for herself soon, 
she would be compelled to throw things about the floor, so as to 
be able to pick them up. To bath herself was as much as a 


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WITH OTHER EYES 


well-servanted Englishwoman was allowed to do, she declared. 

To Franklin Gibson’s remark, Mrs. Sarsfield said: 

“That must be old enough to be Eve’s mother. She is a 
very practical proof of my age.” 

Alex laughed. “You couldn’t look old enough for that, Mrs. 
Sarsfield— no woman could.” 

“You pig!” Evangeline said good-naturedly. “What do you 
mean by that? I’ll swear I look no older that you do!” 

“I mean,” Alex said, “that no human woman could look 
old enough to be the mother of Eve, to have wisdom for her 
child.” 

“And I am Wisdom?” Evangeline said. Her voice was so 
tragic that even her mother joined in the laugh. “Do you think 
I’m Wisdom, Mr. Gibson?” Evangeline turned the blueness of 
her eyes full on the gallant American. 

“You are Beauty,” he said. “You are to be Lady Hamilton, 
the woman who bewitched the bravest heart in England.” 

“Thank you,” she said. “You are always so nice. For poor 
mamma it is easier to mother Beauty than Wisdom, for Wisdom 
is so often unwise.” Evangeline stooped and kissed Mrs. Sars- 
field. “They mustn’t say horrid things about your only child, 
mamma, must they — your one ewe lamb?” 

“Is Wisdom so very horrid?” Alex asked. “Solomon asked 
for it.” 

“I always think he must have been a fool to do it, if Wisdom 
means being wise; wise people are always unloved. It is the 
gay and light-hearted whom the world wants. I’d rather be 
foolish and be wanted than be wise and treated like a solicitor.” 

“Oh, Evangeline, having wisdom means using your knowl- 
edge rightly.” Her mother was nervous of her girl’s tongue. 

“Oh, Mary Sarsfield,” Evangeline said, “I don’t care a fig 
about Solomon’s kind of wisdom. Your kind is much more 
profitable. Tell me how to get two good husbands and I’ll 
snap my fingers at all the Solomons in the world!” 

The party laughed sympathetically, for they knew what 
Evangeline meant. She often teased her mother about her en- 
gagement, her second blooming, her clever plotting and unfair 
monopoly. 

In Wales Evangeline had grown very beautiful — wind- 
tanned and physically perfect. Hebe, whose little “paddles” 


WITH OTHER EYES 131 

about the garden-paths never helped her circulation, was gen- 
erally chilly. Evangeline was young enough and active enough 
never to feel cold. Her “fine organdies” and transparent crepes 
and laces made Hebe shiver even on the best of summer days. 

When Evangeline rose from the tea-table and said, “Who 
will come for a stroll in the garden?” she soon found herself 
followed by Franklin Gibson. Her fast tender appeal to him 
sent him after her. She was standing now at the top of the 
garden-steps, in a considerate, patient manner. She smiled 
graciously as he came up to her. 

“This is the hour I love best in the glen,” she said. “Won’t 
you come?” 

“Of course I’ll come,” he said. He was dancing to the tune 
she piped, and Evangeline was in her best “come hither” mood. 
Her eyes said, “Come out and play”; the imp of mischief was 
sitting on her shoulder. Some influence outside herself tempted 
her to weigh her beauty and youth against Alex’s indefinable 
magnetism. Above all things, she wanted to pour balm on her 
own wounded vanity. 

They wandered through the summer beauty of the garden 
to the black sides of the deep ravine, Evangeline talking lightly 
and yet tenderly of her far-off Acadia; of its meadows knee- 
deep in daisies and aflame with fireweed; of Mount Blomidon, 
looking like a great turquoise in the soft light across the valley; 
and of the long-billed humming-birds. 

She set the pace, a little ahead of Franklin Gibson, and 
threw him glances, mocking or tender, over her left shoulder; 
her curling lips were dangerously young and provoking in their 
softness. 

At last they reached the high crag above the Devil’s Cauldron. 
On their slippery way through the glen conversation had 
dwindled. Evangeline was standing, poised like a goat on the 
top of the crag, her skirts wind-swept round her clean limbs, 
her dark hair blown out from her forehead, a very Diana of the 
Uplands. No man with human blood in his veins could have 
watched her and not desired her. 

“Come and stand just here!” she cried. “It’s glorious! This 
is Tony’s Merlin’s cave. This Devil’s Cauldron has almost 
reconciled his childish heart to England. Nothing came up to 
Canada before he saw this; he was pathetically Canada-sick.” 


132 


WITH OTHER EYES 


“I am glad the wind is blowing you landwards,” Franklin 
Gibson said. “You are poised like an antelope or a hartebeest 
of the African plains. They love standing on gigantic ant- 
hills.” 

“Listen,” she said. “Merlin is awfully angry to-day. The 
noise is more than usually horrible.” 

It was certainly an appalling noise, like the hurling together 
of large stones, and their rebounding with terrific fury against 
the walls of an unseen cave. Evangeline’s eyes glowed; the 
romance and mystery of the place fired her imagination. 

“Of course, like a good American, you’ve read your Malory 
before coming to Wales, Mr. Gibson? You remember the end 
of poor Merlin?” 

“I remember that Merlin was the King’s magician and wise 
adviser, and that the fair and cruel Nimue inveigled him to 
the top of the wonderful cavern, on purpose to get rid of him.” 
His eyes looked into Evangeline’s. The fair Nimue was pitiless; 
she knew the power of her beauty and youth on the wretched 
Merlin. 

Evangeline withdrew her eyes. “I told Tony the story, and, 
do you know, he firmly believes that poor old Merlin is still 
imprisoned in this cavern. The wicked Nimue is quite real 
to him; he prays for her every night.” 

“I forget,” Franklin Gibson said, “just how she managed 
to get Merlin inside the cavern, and did he never get out again?” 

“When he said good-bye to King Arthur, he knew quite well 
that he was going to his doom, that his love for the enchantress 
was to be his own undoing. Yet he went off to Cornwall with 
her; I suppose he thought the game was worth the candle — he 
did it with his eyes open. In Cornwall he showed Nimue all 
the wonders of that land and taught her all his powers of 
magic. He was so crazy about her — ‘besotted’ with love, as 
Malory says — that he couldn’t help himself. When King 
Arthur asked him why he was so eager to go with her when 
he knew that she would kill him when she was tired of him, the 
poor old thing said, ‘Because I cannot help myself. It is Fate.’ 
When they got to Cornwall he showed her a wonderful cavern, 
made by magic out of a solid rock. Its mouth was closed by 
two mighty stones.” 


133 


WITH OTHER EYES 

‘.‘I remember that. Please go on — it’s fresher in your 
memory than in mine.” 

“Well, old Merlin was so intoxicated with love that, at her 
bidding, he used his powers of magic and removed the stones 
which sealed the cavern’s mouth. He was so delighted, poor 
soul, to be able to give her any pleasure, that he even offered 
to show her all the marvels that were concealed in the cave. 
But the moment he entered it, Nimue put to use the magic he 
had taught her. She made the stones sink back, ‘with a mighty 
sound/ that’s Malory, into their place, and old love-sick 
Merlin was shut in the cavern. Only Nimue could set him 
free, and that she would never do because . . .” — Evangeline 
laughed — . . well — you know why — because of the human- 
est of all reasons to a woman — he was a bore.” 

Franklin Gibson laughed at her expression of sympathy for 
the cruel Nimue. “Well, I remember,” he said, “that Renan 
excuses Marcus Aurelius’s wife her infidelity to her husband 
on the ground that he was a bore — as a man and a husband, I 
take it.” 

“I agree with Renan,” Evangeline said. “And I’m glad 
he had the pluck to say so. Do you know that for about three 
successive Christmases in Canada I got charmingly-bound edi- 
tions of the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius from my friends? 
They bored me to tears. He was dull enough to have been a 
Christian instead of a good pagan, don’t you think?” 

“Why, Miss Sarsfield, was St. Francis dull? I don’t like to 
hear your lips say such things.” 

“No, no. But you must admit that St. Francis had a pagan 
soul, though his outward expression was Christian — his songs 
to the sun, his sermons to the birds — oh, I love him! My 
greatest desire is to visit his city. Glastonbury has made me 
want to go to Assisi most frightfully.” She paused. “In the 
Chalice Hostel there was always much talk of St. Francis. In 
Canada I have been given lots and lots of editions of ‘The Little 
Flowers of St. Francis.’ There was a sort of cult for St. 
Francis with us in Grand Pre, just as there was for Marcus 
Aurelius. I’m too young to have known the Browning cult — 
that’s quite dead. They speak of Browning now as ‘nineteenth- 
century/ don’t they? It makes him seem such a way back!” 

“You were fortunate to live in such an intellectual circle.” 


134 


WITH OTHER EYES 


“Oh, but we weren’t intellectual — it was a fashion. Marcus 
Aurelius is awfully suburban nowadays — things have changed. 
We’re all for outdoor sport now, and Red Cross Societies. We 
might be anticipating another Civil War. I am a highly- 
certificated V.A.D., if you please! Marcus Aurelius was 
ponderous,” she said. “He lacked passion. St. Francis didn’t.” 

“Do you know what another great French writer said of 
Marcus Aurelius? — that he ‘thought like a man, felt like a 
woman, and acted like a child’?” 

“I am too ignorant of history to know how he acted,” 
Evangeline said. “I only know his reminiscences, bound in 
green leather with such fine gold. I prefer my Malory. Oh, 
wasn’t his a glorious age to live in? — I mean, the age from 
which he took his legends. Fancy, if on my way home I 
wanted to avoid being seen by Mrs. McArthur and Alex Heming- 
way, I could just turn both you and myself into stone-trees 
until they had passed! Do you remember how Morgan le Fay 
turned herself and all her followers into stone images when 
her brother was searching for her after she had betrayed him?” 

“Or supposing, like Nimue, you lured me into that deep 
cavern, Miss Evangeline? Supposing your blue eyes led me 
there whether I wanted to go or not, and then you left me to my 
fate?” 

“But you have taught me no magic . . . you couldn’t 

move the stones.” 

“I have a great deal of money,” he said very simply, “and 
money can buy most things, magic included?” 

“To-day it’s the ‘Open Sesame’ to a great deal,” she said 
lightly. “In King Arthur’s day money never seemed to matter. 
The poorest knight, if he could fight a brave foe and win, did 
the most extravagant things. That was the day of romance and 
chivalry, not money and progress and worldly ambition.” 

“And to-day,” he said, “is romance quite dead?” 

“It has no power against the magic of wealth,” she said, 
“for wealth means position, freedom and pleasure.” 

“I think romance worth everything in the world,” he said. 
“Poor, foolish Merlin, he has my sympathy! His love was 
stronger than himself; he sacrificed everything to it.” 

“His absolute devotion bored Nimue. She had to rid herself 


WITH OTHER EYES 135 

of him. No man with any sense would sell his strength and 
free will to a woman.” 

“Samson and Delilah,” he said, “the old, old story. A wise 
man becomes a fool when he is in love.” 

The summer wind was playing through the pine-trees; the 
roar of the river was monotonous, threatening. They were com- 
pelled to listen to it. 

“Is the noise of these stones pounding together accounted 
for scientifically, I wonder? Perhaps they became detached 
from the inside of the rock by some great upheaval; they can’t 
get out at the narrow mouth of the cavern and so they go on 
rolling and smashing together when that inrush of water goes 
over them.” 

“Don’t you dare to say that to Tony!” Evangeline said. 
“This is Merlin’s prison. I believe that he would willingly 
wait here for any length of time, on the chance of seeing the 
cruel Nimue come and release him. He said he’d ask the 
Blessed Virgin every night in his prayers to change her heart 
and make her set poor old Merlin free. I think this ravine 
and cave are curiously like the description of Merlin’s cave 
in Malory. And why shouldn’t it be? No one really knows 
whether Camelot was Winchester or Glastonbury or Wales. At 
the Chalice Hostel you daren’t even suggest that it was Win- 
chester. I suppose at Winchester they contest the honour in the 
same way?” 

“Have it where you like,” he said. “You are a modem 
enchantress, you can do pretty well what you choose. And 
those knights did seem to travel wonderful distances on horse- 
back in a few days. But I must remember the fate of Merlin, 
the power of beauty. I think it is best for me to get right 
away from the spot.” 

“You are afraid!” Evangeline called out, tauntingly. 

Franklin Gibson turned round quickly. “Yes, I am afraid of 
your blue eyes,” he said. “Mrs. McArthur told me that I 
should have to take care; you might prove as cruel as Nimue.” 

Evangeline sprang after him. “Anyhow, Nimue was faithful 
to the King; she was faithful to her own heart. She adored 
King Arthur; she used her witchcraft to save his life. Surely 
that was sufficient atonement for her treatment of the foolish 
old Merlin?” 


136 


WITH OTHER EYES 


“Why did she ever inveigle old Merlin into her clutches? 
She couldn’t have wanted him.” 

“Ah,” Evangeline said, “why?” She sighed. “Perhaps when 
a woman can’t get one thing, she just plays with another. Or 
perhaps she wanted to learn his witchcraft — and to make him 
love her. But here they come,” she said. “I believe this is the 
first time that Mrs. Hemingway has ventured as far as the crag. 
I wonder what she’ll think of the Devil’s Cauldron?” 

When they came to within speaking distance, Evangeline 
detected a hint of annoyance in Hebe McArthur’s voice when 
she addressed her. Hebe was annoyed. The girl was spoiling 
her plan. She had been irritated at the way in which Franklin 
Gibson had followed Evangeline when she left the tea-table. 
He was a stupid fellow, to dance to every tune the girl piped. 
It was a case of blow hot, blow cold with Evangeline. She 
could see almost with her eyes shut that the emotional Ameri- 
can had been letting the wine of Evangeline’s beauty go to his 
head. The only thing for him was total abstinence. 

“Oh, Mrs. Hemingway,” Evangeline said enthusiastically, 
“this is your first visit to Tony’s wonderland, to Merlin’s 
prison.” 

Alex could have loved Evangeline for her love of Tony, for 
the way in which she had managed to take the place of Bartholo- 
mew in his days. Her stock of fairy-stories was unending, her 
own belief in his pet fairies unquestioning. Alex returned Evan- 
geline’s sympathetic smiles with happy eyes. 

“He has told me all about it,” she said. “Nimue and 
Merlin are as real to him as anything at Tregaron.” 

“And why not?” Evangeline said. “In this country they 
can’t be very far from us. To-morrow we are going to St. 
David’s. I wish the morning would come quickly, for Mr. 
Gibson says that according to Geoffrey of Monmouth, St. David 
was the uncle of King Arthur. He was the Bishop of Menevia, 
which is the old name for St. David’s. I know I shall love 
the place.” 

“Oh, you strangers within our gates,” Alex said, “of course 
you know all about the history of the place and the romance 
of it.” 

“But I don’t know it, Mrs. Hemingway,” Hebe said. “I’m 
sure I don’t know how Mr. Gibson has had the time to make a 


WITH OTHER EYES 


137 


fortune and accumulate all the knowledge of these old places 
which he possesses. It leaves me tired. His history is always 
at his finger-ends.” 

“Why, Mrs. McArthur, don’t write me down a bore before 
this young lady, for she has just been arguing with me that 
Nimue was justified in treating Merlin as she did because he 
was a bore. She says she’d as soon be a leper as a bore.” 

“I don’t know how Nimue treated Merlin,” Hebe said. “Does 
it come into any opera ? Mrs. Hemingway and I have been talk- 
ing about far more practical and less high-falutin’ things — how 
to make wild raspberry syrup, and how to bottle fruits as they 
do in Germany and Canada.” 

“Don’t you love wild raspberries?” Evangeline said. “I used 
to almost live on them during one holiday which we spent at 
Port Royal. The wild fruit here makes me very homesick. 
It’s so mean and poor; you should see the raspberries of Grand 
Pre!” 

“The wild fruits in Canada were over weeks and weeks 
ago,” Alex said. “Here they are so late.” 

“You burst right into summer, don’t you, in Canada?” Hebe 
said. 

“Where I was we did,” Alex said abstractedly, for she was 
listening again to the rolling of the big stones and to the hiss 
of the foaming water. She seemed mesmerized by the sound; 
her eyes were fixed on the swirling pool. 

“However did the stones get into it?” Hebe said wonder- 
ingly. “I suppose just in the same way as the milk got into the 
cocoanut!” 

They all laughed. The remark was so typical of her indolent, 
lazy mind. The place had filled Evangeline’s head with 
romance. It had mesmerized and silenced Alex Hemingway. 
Hebe, though she thought it was very wonderful in her happy, 
light-hearted eyes, was occupied with a more material problem; 
how she was to carry off Evangeline and free Franklin Gibson 
from her web. 

“Let us ‘change partners,’ ” she said at last, as she linked 
her arm in Evangeline’s. “Let us two go on ahead and allow 
Mr. Gibson to tell Mrs. Hemingway something about her own 
country. I should forget everything he told me before I got to 
St. David’s, if he began upon it now. I shall forget it, anyhow, 


138 


WITH OTHER EYES 


soon after I’ve seen it. But that makes no difference to my love 
for old places and fine buildings. I get so mixed up in their 
history — that’s the trouble.” 

“Everyone must,” Evangeline said. “I’ve seen so little yet, 
so it isn’t difficult for me to remember it all pretty clearly. 
And St. David’s is connected with Glastonbury, so that will 
help. It won’t be entirely fresh ground. St. David’s, I believe, 
is almost as lovely in its own way as Glastonbury, isn’t it?” 

But Mrs. McArthur was not listening, as she pattered with 
small steps down the steep incline which took them from the 
high crag over the Devil’s Cauldron to the path through the 
wood. Presently she disturbed the silence. 

“Miss Sarsfield,” she said, confidentially, with her most 
Southern intonation, “I have such hopes that those two will 
draw together. Wouldn’t it be fine?” 

Evangeline looked surprised. “Wouldn’t it be just splendid ?” 
she said. “I thought myself he admired her the very first time 
I saw them together. And each day he gets more and more 
interested in her, doesn’t he? And she gets more and more 
attractive. To-day she is awfully charming, don’t you think?” 

“Yes. But you’re a ‘naghty’ girl, Evangeline!” 

“Me? 'How, Mrs. McArthur?” 

“Well, I’ve confided to you my little plan, and you have been 
upsetting it.” 

“How have I been upsetting it?” Evangeline laughed 
guiltily. 

“Why, with those blue eyes of yours. You know what men 
are like — don’t pretend to me that you don’t.” 

Evangeline laughed. “Mrs. McArthur,” she said, “Franklin 
Gibson knows what I’m worth — he’s no fool.” 

“All men are fools when your blue eyes are near them. They 
were made to upset them, poor dears! You’re worth a very 
great deal, Evangeline,” Hebe said affectionately. “But some- 
thing’s happened to you. You’re quite different; you’re not the 
girl of the Andalusia. You played a cat-and-mouse game on 
board the boat with that poor poet, but he was a fool who let 
you do it.” She took Evangeline’s long, beautifully strong hand 
in her very feminine ones. “Something or someone has hurt 
you, Evangeline. Is it your mother’s marriage? Can you tell 
me?” 


139 


WITH OTHER EYES 

“Oh, no! That’s the nicest and softest thing that ever hap- 
pened. If you only saw them together, Mrs. McArthur, you 
would envy mother.” Evangeline looked very serious, as if 
some idea had suddenly come to her. There was something in 
the English doctor’s manner towards her mother which reminded 
her of Franklin Gibson’s attitude to all women. They were both 
large-hearted, simple men; both were true knights in their old- 
fashioned gallantry and reverence for romance and women. 

“I’m glad it isn’t your mother’s marriage,” Hebe said, “for 
it does seem to me very hard lines that a woman like your 
mother, who has the chance of a second happy married life held 
out to her, should not take it, that it should be spoilt by the 
jealousy of her child, especially when children leave their 
mother for the men they love.” 

“I shan’t spoil mamma’s romance,” Evangeline said. “When 
the doctor asked me for her hand in marriage, I gave it at once. 
He knew that I was delighted. There was no trouble. I think 
it is a splendid settling-down for her.” 

“Oh, you funny child! Did he do that? Did he ask you for 
your mother’s hand?” Hebe laughed delightedly. 

“I have always brought mamma up. Can you imagine that 
little nosegay of sweet innocence brushing up against lawyers 
and bankers and shipping-clerks and hotel-keepers? For as 
long as I can remember anything, I have managed mamma and 
all her affairs.” 

“You’ve carried her about in your arms like a baby — I saw 
you.” Hebe laughed sympathetically. 

“No,” Evangeline said. “That belongs to a later develop- 
ment. She had influenza some years ago, and when she was too 
weak to walk during her convalescence I carried her. I got 
into the way of doing it. I should think that we’d quarrelled, or 
that something had happened, if I didn’t whip her up every now 
and then. My arms would feel very empty.” 

“Women’s arms do feel empty, don’t you think, until children 
come to fill them? We’re all bom mothers, we women.” 

Evangeline gave Hebe’s arm an understanding pressure. 

“The most independent women are such lone things,” Hebe 
said. “Their empty arms mock at worldly greatness and wealth. 
Day by day I find myself recognizing that Alex Hemingway 


140 


WITH OTHER EYES 


is far richer than either you or me, that she lives on a higher 
plane, that she has attained something which we haven’t.” 

“Her boy is a darling!” Evangeline said. “He has de- 
veloped a great fancy for me since we’ve been here. On board 
ship it was you, not me.” 

“Yes, the young rogue! You have cut me out entirely.” 

“It’s because I tell him fairy-stories; Malory is my widow’s 
cruse. Besides, bless him, he thinks that I need his help.” 
Evangeline smiled. “He has seen me carrying mamma, and 
he volunteered to help me with her. He says that he often 
nurses his mummie and looks after her when she is ill.” 

“Bless his dear, dear heart!” Hebe said. “What a manly 
little chap he is. If he was mine, I shouldn’t envy the Queen.” 

They had drifted far from their original conversation. Little 
had been said that really mattered. Yet the talk had drawn the 
women much closer together. Hebe realized that Evangeline, 
like herself, would rejoice if they could bring off her little plan 
for Franklin Gibson and Alex Hemingway. Hebe had been 
very adroit; Evangeline felt flattered by her confidence and by 
the suggestion that only by the withdrawal of her own fascina- 
tion could the plan be accomplished. 

Hebe asked Evangeline to call her by her Christian name, 
and Evangeline confessed that being called “Miss Sarsfield” by 
everyone except her own mother often made her so homesick 
for Grand Pre and for the people who knew her intimately, that 
she felt like booking a berth in the next liner and flying off. 

“I know Evangeline is a terrible mouthful,” she said, “but 
what else can you make of it, except Eve? and that’s mamma’s 
privilege.” 

“No other name would suit you, now that I’ve thought of you 
as Evangeline. You are Evangeline.” 

“Doesn’t it sound lovesick and sentimental to you? Long- 
fellow’s Evangeline has set the type for all Evangelines in 
England.” Her secret thoughts had flown back to the evening 
at the Chalice Hostel. 

“You have wiped out Longfellow’s Evangeline. I shall 
always think of Evangeline now as a modem girl, with the bluest 
eyes I ever saw. I declare, I never knew that eyes could be 
so blue.” 


WITH OTHER EYES 141 

“It’s only a case of contrast — my dark hair makes them look 
bluer than they are.” 

“You’re modest not to say dark lashes,” Hebe said, as she 
threw a look over her shoulder. Her own dark eyes laughed. 
“Oh, the couple are getting on all right,” she said. “They have 
only moved about a hundred yards. He’s got away from your 
eyes, you naghty child ! He’s deep in George Borrow, you bet, 
obsessed by ‘Wild Wales.’ ” 

“They seem to have too much to say to allow of quick walking 
anyhow — or, rather, slipping over this path,” Evangeline said. 
“Mr. Gibson hasn’t got ‘Wild Wales’ feet, has he?” 

“Too much to talk about” was the truth with Franklin Gibson 
and Alex. Their dallying was unconscious. Franklin was at 
the moment deep in a discussion, not about Wild Wales, but 
about the imperative need for improvement in the social con- 
ditions of the working classes in England’s industrial centres. 

“If I was an Englishman, and I didn’t see any chance of 
improvement . . . why, I just couldn’t go on living,” he said. 

His mind was always full of the subject. It had been burn- 
ing in his brain ever since he had made a tour of the industrial 
centres of Great Britain. In Australia, which he had visited 
to push his motor-business, he had come under the influence of 
W. M. Hughes. He saw in him Australia’s Abraham Lincoln. 
He was still under his influence; he saw industrial England 
with Hughes’ eyes. He had just quoted from a speech which he 
had heard him make. 

As he spoke the words earnestly and appealingly, Alex won- 
dered how he had come by his own great wealth, if he had 
carried out any of the plans which he suggested. She scarcely 
liked to ask him, and he had not volunteered the information. 
She was not defending England’s attitude towards the industrial 
and labouring classes, but she had been brought up to regard 
such a state of things as wholly natural as the rising of the 
sun each morning. There was a world bom to rule and another 
bom to make the ruling classes rich and comfortable. That the 
labouring classes had been created for the benefit of the rich was 
no man’s fault. It was fate. She, by her own folly, had stepped 
out of her own world; she was entering the world of labour; 
she would have to enter into its contests. Loyalty to her tradi- 
tions and class would prevent her from complaining. 


142 


WITH OTHER EYES 


“And are labour conditions so ideal in America?” she said. 
“Is there such an Utopia anywhere as you suggest?” 

“They are far from ideal with us,” he said, “but nowhere are 
the social conditions of the labouring classes so soul-sickening 
as in England. And we in America are progressing. We aren’t 
lying down under it; it isn’t any part of our tradition. We 
aren’t looked upon as revolutionary if we deplore it.” 

“Do you think there ever could be equality of wealth?” 

“No,” he said, “that’s absurd. But if I didn’t pay every man 
in my factory what his work was worth to me, not what I can 
get his work for, and give him besides a small interest in the 
concern, I couldn’t go to bed at night; I couldn’t be left alone 
with my own soul.” 

Alex knew that his wealth was “motor-cars.” His famous 
“Spender” was one of the cheapest cars on the market. “I’m 
glad you do that,” she said. 

“I do,” he said, “and so do many others in my country. 
Apart from everything else, it pays, Mrs. Hemingway, to get 
the best brains, the best energy, the best enthusiasm, the best 
men. I pay them five dollars a day — that’s a pound — and their 
small percentage.” He laughed. “It hasn’t broke the Spender 
factory; it’s carried it right along by leaps and bounds. And it 
will carry it further still.” 

Alex was silent. Into her mind came the strange contrast 
between this active-minded commercial man, whose inquisitive 
eyes always unnerved her, and her idle, well-bred husband. 
Larry had always been a drone, living on the labour of others, 
as thoughtless and callous of the subject of the progress of 
humanity as the male bee. Well, she had kicked him out of the 
hive, and there was an end of it. As the wife of a man like 
Franklin Gibson life would have been extraordinarily different 
and extremely interesting. His passion for history and objects 
of art and ancient architecture saved him from being one-sided; 
it refined the commercial man effectively. 

“I don’t want to bore you, Mrs. Hemingway,” he said, “and 
I’m afraid I have already done so; it’s a mighty dangerous thing 
for a man to let himself go on his favourite topic, especially 
when he finds an intelligent and patient listener. I apologise.” 

“Oh, don’t ! I’m not bored. People are much more interesting 


WITH OTHER EYES 143 

when they are talking about what they are interested in, don’t 
you think? — ‘shop/ if you like to call it so.” 

“I’m interested in so many things,” he said. “I ought to be 
quite interesting myself, according to your theory.” He laughed, 
a little sadly, for he could not forget that to the youthful Evan- 
geline he had proved a bore. 

“You are interesting to me,” Alex said, “for you make me 
think.” 

“You make me think,” he said earnestly. 

“Do I?” Alex spoke nervously. “I wonder why? I haven’t 
had brains enough lately to make a fly think. You must only 
think I am stupid.” 

“Why, no,” he said. “I find myself thinking and thinking 
about you, trying to find out just what it is that makes me think 
about you, what it is that places you quite apart, makes you 
aloof, individual.” 

“I’m so sorry. Am I inattentive, uninterested?” 

“No, it’s when you are most attentive, Mrs. Hemingway, that 
you are most aloof. You guard your soul so very jealously; you 
give to others only your outward self; you ask for no sort of 
spiritual companionship.” 

“I have so little to give. I exist only for Tony and in Tony. 
It’s because I’m such a husk that I’ve made you curious; you 
are always looking for something deeper.” 

“Oh, don’t say that!” he cried. “The mere fact of Life is 
so wonderful, Mrs. Hemingway. We live surrounded by 
miracles. Life is a great privilege — don’t you feel that?” 

“But I only exist,” Alex said. “The old me, who once thought 
these things wonderful, is dead. The other me just exists in my 
boy. I am only alive for him; he is my real self.” 

“You loved some man as gfeatly as all that?” Franklin Gib- 
son said. He looked at her earnestly. “There again you have 
enjoyed the greatest privilege; you have lived on a higher plane; 
you have partaken of the great sacraments of love, and realized 
the miracle of motherhood. Yours was the true sacrament of 
holy matrimony, Mrs. Hemingway. It is such love as yours 
which makes marriage sacred; too often it is profane.” He 
smiled. “Isn’t it just a little ungracious to feel towards life as 
you are feeling now?” 

Alex’s thin face had flushed. The man’s emotional tempera- 


144 


WITH OTHER EYES 


ment had taken her life’s tragedy into his own hands. He had 
created it. His kindly sympathy for her suffering made her 
feel a ridiculous liar. Larry, the partaker of her joys in the 
holy sacrament of marriage, was probably at this moment en- 
joying himself spending the last dregs of the money which he had 
made from his sale of skins and heads. 

Franklin Gibson broke in on her reverie. “Will you grant me 
a privilege, Mrs. Hemingway? May I come and see you in 
your London home?” His eyes held hers. “I should like to 
enjoy myself with Tony at the Zoo or Hampstead Heath. Have 
you ever been to Hampstead Heath on a Bank Holiday?” 

Alex laughed. “My stepmother would scarcely have approved 
of the outing, when I was a child.” 

“Why, it’s a great education,” he said, “to see a lump-mass 
of city workers at play, to see that a spirit of fun and love of 
enjoyment is still alive in a class whose surroundings are vile 
enough to kill anything but the grossest passions in human be- 
ings. I’ve been there twice,” he said, “and if I’m in London in 
August, I mean to go again. They enjoy themselves in their own 
fashion, but it is enjoyment. From morning until night they 
never tire. I always say a stranger ought to see Henley, for it is 
representative of England’s upper classes at play; Hampstead 
Heath on August Bank Holiday is representative of the work- 
ing classes. My, but I do want to give them more of it, when I 
see them half-intoxicated with the mere fact of being in the 
fresh air! It makes me feel a selfish capitalist.” 

“I had never any chance of even thinking of doing such a 
thing, before I was married. English people don’t do it, you 
know.” 

“You have a stepmother?” he asked. His inquisitive eyes 
expressed satisfaction. He had learned one thing more about 
her personal affairs; she had actually volunteered the informa- 
tion. 

“Yes,” she said, “I still have very much a stepmother. She’s 
all step, I’m afraid, and . . .” 

“Not much mother.” 

“Not one scrap. My father married her when I was at school. 
I came home one summer holiday to find her installed as my 
‘new mamma.’ ” 

“Is that so?” he said. 


WITH OTHER EYES 145 

“She was my father’s nurse when he was very ill. She just 
married him while he was too weak to resist.” 

“Is he happy with her in his married life?” 

“Happy is a big word, Mr. Gibson. He is very easy-going. 
She spends his income, and he, fortunately, is very little at home. 
He is at sea, all the time, you know.” 

“In the Navy?” 

Alex nodded her head. 

“The boy’s to go into it, too — is that so?” 

“I hope so. That is what I’m working for.” 

“You women leave us men far behind, Mrs. Hemingway. 
Your fortitude is magnificent. A woman’s great quality is forti- 
tude. And yet in this country you are refused a vote!” 

“I don’t think I want one. I have responsibilities enough as 
it is.” 

“That’s so,” he said. He paused. “It will take some great 
upheaval to set England right, to lift her out of her rut. She 
can’t get along like this for ever — any stranger can see that, 
Mrs. Hemingway.” 

“You think not? And yet you like her; you leave America 
to come here over and over again?” 

“Why, I can’t keep away from her,” he said, “I just love her. 
But I’m afraid for her; she’s like . . . well, I don’t know 
what she’s like to me — something that J can’t keep away from, 
anyhow — some wonderful object of priceless beauty, that is 
blemished and scarred all over. I want to restore her, I want 
to see her spiritual nature revived — or, I should say, developed.” 

“How strange,” Alex said, “the effect it has on other eyes! 
To me it is all one big accumulation of customs and conventions 
and beauty and ugliness, an inherited accumulation, which 
makes up home and England. England wouldn’t be England 
if she was less tragic or less callous, less muddle-headed and 
indifferent.” 

“We are speaking of Great Britain when you say England, 
I presume, Mrs. Hemingway?” 

“Oh yes,” Alex said. “It is north of the Tweed that you get 
that jealous distinction. South of that landmark ‘England’ 
means the British Isles. We have Scotland and Ireland just 
as much in our minds when we use the word ‘England’ as we 
have the country south of the Tweed. I can make a Scotch aunt 


146 


WITH OTHER EYES 


of mine so annoyed that she won’t send Tony a Christmas pres- 
ent and he’s her godchild — if at any time near Christmas I for- 
get and put N.B. on her letters, instead of Scotland.” 

“You should only do that when the present isn’t good enough. 
So you are partly Scots?” He was probing again. 

“No, she’s only an aunt by marriage.” 

“I have not yet received permission to call on you in London.” 

“You should ask me on the last day of my stay at Tregaron,” 
she said. “You may regret it — you have only known me for one 
week.” 

“I don’t feel like that,” he said. “You belong to England, 
to this place.” 

“To this place?” Alex said quickly. “Whatever makes you 
think of such a thing?” 

“I don’t think it,” he said, “I feel it. You’re in the mystery 
of that hidden stream; you are as elusive and haunting as every- 
thing else which makes up the spirit of Wales. You are a wraith- 
woman,” he said meditatively. “One day I see you clearly, the 
next you are gone — you are a shadow in a mist.” 

“That is because I spend half the day in bed,” she said. It 
was an effort to take his grave words lightly. 

“I mean it. But it’s so hard to explain what I mean. 
Haven’t you ever come to a new place and felt that you knew 
it quite well, that you had seen it before, that things were 
strangely familiar? In this place I have seen you in many 
forms — it may be, in your former incarnation, if you can call 
it that. You are least yourself, your real self, when your ma- 
terial presence is near. I have seen you in many, many different 
settings. I have often seen you in those big gold frames which 
hold the proud Pontifexes. I see you as a little child, in Vic- 
torian clothes, playing about these paths.” He paused. “Isn’t 
it odd, how clearly our subconscious selves can see things, and 
how very, very hard it is to explain them to others?” 

Alex was agitated, uneasy. “In London you will see me as a 
strenuous boarding-house-keeper.” 

“Then I have your permission? I want to help you, Mrs. 
Hemingway. I am a business man. I’d like to feel that you 
would apply to me if you wanted advice.” 

“I will,” Alex said. “I shall only be too happy if you will 
come, and let me look upon you as a friend in need.” 


147 


WITH OTHER EYES 

*‘I will be that,” he said, “and I’m not saying what I don’t 
mean. Do you know, one of the saddest disappointments in 
having made money, in realizing wealth, lies in the fact that 
one can’t spend it as one would like, that one can’t help the 
people one would most enjoy helping. We are asked for money 
for strangers, who may or may not be worthy of any help; we 
have to hand over large sums to all sorts of schemes; but we 
may only offer flowers and theatre-tickets to people like you. 
Oh,” he cried, “you wouldn’t believe how angry it makes me! 
It would be so delightful if we could be quite natural and 
simple in such matters.” 

“I think it would be delightful,” she said, “but that and so 
much more belong to the inherited order of things. It just 
can’t be; it’s one of the silly conventions that have their root 
in wisdom.” 

“After a bit, Mrs. Hemingway, there gets to be a terrible 
monotony in mere wealth, and a sad lack of new methods of 
spending it.” 

“I’d like to try,” Alex said, “just to have the excitement of 
spending as much as I liked for one long day.” 

“I wish you could,” he said. “But you’d find it pall if you 
had it always. It grows monotonous.” 

“If you can buy the best of everything and anything,” Alex 
said, “and do anything you like, I suppose it would become 
boring. Spending would cease to be a pleasure if you could 
just as well buy up the whole shop and be done with it.” 

“That’s why I find more joy in discovering some treasure in 
a thieves’ market and doing it up. In part I’ve created it; my 
brains as well as my money have paid for it. Brains, Mrs. 
Hemingway — that is the force behind all capital. Your English 
trades-unionists forget that.” 

“Brains are the most unequally distributed of all capitals,” 
Alex said, “which seems to me to indicate that there was always 
meant to be a shockingly unequal distribution of wealth.” 

“Not at all,” he said. “A man with brains couldn’t make a 
fortune without the sweat and labour of the workers. He prob- 
ably by nature is totally unfitted for a life of strenuous physical 
labour. It is his brain which creates ; the labourers are the hands 
which drive. It is evenly divided; it ought to be partnership.” 


148 


WITH OTHER EYES 


“Then do you think that my servants ought to share in the 
profits of my boarding-house when I start it?” 

“It would be a good plan,” he said eagerly, “a very good plan 
indeed. It is not an uncommon one in France and Italy. Why 
not try it in London?” 

“Do you really mean it?” 

“Yes, I do. But whatever you do, don’t offer low wages be- 
cause of giving that interest — offer good wages, a decent living 
wage, what the servant’s work is worth to you, not what you can 
get it for — what it is worth in keeping your house going. Mind, 
you can’t do without them, Mrs. Hemingway. And also give 
them a small percentage on all bills. No one could pay a high 
enough wage to reward a person for being at another person’s 
beck and call from seven a.m. until ten p.m. every day, could 
they?” 

“Would it ever pay if I did? I only meant to charge thirty 
shillings a week — or, at the highest, thirty-five shillings.” 

“If it’s going to pay you at all,” he said, “it can be made to 
pay on that basis — and pay better. Why don’t you make it a 
sort of residential club, so to speak? Make everyone deposit a 
few shillings when they enter — a sort of club fee. Call your 
house ‘St. Michael’s Residential Club.’ These shillings would 
go some way towards your servants’ percentage.” 

“What an ideal” Alex said excitedly. “I believe it’s just 
what I shall do — an entrance-fee, but no annual subscription.” 
She laughed. “Oh, how funny 1” 

“There will always be a coming-and-going — there’s bound to 
be. And, believe me, you’ll find that a small percentage on the 
profits will make the servants interested in the concern; they 
will stick to you, and make the boarders comfortable.” 

“I’m so stupid about that sort of thing,” Alex said. She 
looked distressed. “Percentages will be the death of me.” 

“My!” he said, “but I can soon show you how to reckon it 
up, to make out the bills. We’ll make the thing a dandy suc- 
cess. Why, you’ll have a big concern before long! I wish I 
was struggling again.” 

Alex was elated. His enthusiasm braced her. 

“You have some capital, Mrs. Hemingway?” 

“Yes, a little.” 

“Do you mind telling me how much?” 


149 


WITH OTHER EYES 

“About nine hundred pounds.” 

“That’s not so bad. What has that got to cover?” 

“I ve taken a big furnished house in St. Michael’s Square. It 
will hold fifteen boarders — more, at a push; that is in single- 
bedded rooms. It’s a fine big house. The money’s got to pay 
the rent and set the thing going — wages, food, coal, light — every- 
thing, until the fees come in.” 

“No deposit to be paid on the furnished house?” 

“I’ve paid it. I have the nine hundred clear to go ahead on.” 

“Good !” he said. “We’ll make a success of it. Run it cheap, 
but not too cheap. Take my advice — get good-class servants, 
and pay them well. The small difference between good wages 
and bad in a case like this isn’t worth considering — you won’t 
fail on the extra expenditure. And give them a small percentage 
on all bills. Let them put a personal interest in the success of 
St. Michael’s Residential Club.” 

“You are awfully kind to be so interested!” 

“No, I’m not. It’s just sport to me, ever such fine sport. I 
love a gamble. I wish I had my fortune to make all over again. 
I should like to start in on nine hundred pounds and see where 
I’d come out.” 

“It’s all I’ve got,” Alex said. “I must not gamble too hard — 
there’s Tony.” 

“Nine hundred pounds, Mrs. Hemingway, even at ‘Spender’ 
interest, would scarcely bring you in sixty pounds a year. Well, 
that’s a mere flea-bite for the boy. You’ve got to gamble with 
your gold, or \t isn’t much good. It won’t go far on that young 
gentleman, I know.” 

Alex’s eyes assented. He was wholly the commercial business 
man in his interested working out of her scheme. 

“Now, in the way you are laying it out, I don’t see why you 
shouldn’t stand to win a very good living for yourself and your 
boy. It will be hard work,” he said, “very hard work — I hate 
to think of it. But you’ve got it in you, Mrs. Hemingway, to 
carry this thing through, and I know that Mrs. McArthur and 
the Sarsfields are prepared to send all the guests they can to 
you.” 

“And with your advice and encouragement,” Alex said, as she 
held out her hands to him, “I feel sure I can pull it through.” 


150 


WITH OTHER EYES 


“Thank you, Mrs. Hemingway, for saying that. I consider 
that you are granting me a very great privilege.” 

Alex wondered what he would say if he knew the whole 
truth. She despised herself for deceiving him, yet he had 
almost thrust his friendship and offer of help upon her. She 
had tried to hold herself aloof, to steer clear of such intimacies, 
to keep out of anything which would involve her in even the ties 
of affection which friendship brings in its train. She wished 
to live on the surface of things, to know people in a one-sided 
fashion, to enjoy their society and enter into their personal in- 
terests and daily pleasures, without letting them probe beneath 
the surface of her own. She felt that she must be free. This 
visit must not spoil her attitude towards the plan which she had 
carefully mapped out for herself. She never wished to tell any- 
one anything about her relations or her old friends, in case it 
might lead to the discovery of her true position. Intimate dis- 
cussions might bring undesirable questions about her husband’s 
people and his death. She had resolutely cut herself off from 
her old life and her old associates. Her father and stepmother 
knew no more than the fact that she had left her husband. She 
had advised them to let things alone, to keep the fact jealously 
to themselves, if they wished to guard the family name from 
scandal. This they did most effectively. She knew that so 
long as she left her stepmother free to enjoy her father’s income 
and the ease which her marriage had given her, she was only 
too well pleased to forget that Alex and Tony existed. 

But it is not so easy to live in the world and outside it at the 
same time. Ties of friendship, like family ties, can become 
fetters. Affection destroys liberty. Freedom is almost as im- 
possible as perfect happiness. We are slaves to our affections 
and traditions. 

Alex was beginning to dread even acquaintances. Hebe’s 
golden kindness might soon become an iron fetter. Franklin 
Gibson’s kindly, sentimental yet hard-headed American friend- 
ship would become another. Already she owed him honesty, and 
a clear statement of her position. He believed her to be one 
thing, while she was another. 


CHAPTER IV 


There is no fairer spot in all Britain on a fine summer’s day 
than St. David’s. The “village-city,” as it is called, was founded 
by the national saint of Wales in 601 . St. David, who, tradi- 
tion avers, was the uncle of King Arthur, was the first Bishop 
of the cathedral, whose all-enduring Norman tower raises its 
head above the strange mingling of ancient and modern archi- 
tecture which forms the unique and beautiful building. This 
square tower rises boldly out of a low green valley, the ancient 
land of Menevia, once a station of the Roman army and the port 
of the Romans for Ireland. 

But St. David’s, with all its unique beauty and romance, needs 
sunshine. Without sunshine the forget-me-nots in the watery 
meadows do not shine and attract the eye like a delicate carpet 
of blue. Without sunshine the white ducks in the stream look 
more real and less like a homely touch in a mediaeval tapestry. 

The sun was shining with all its might; every beauty that is 
St. David’s, and all that is lent to it by the wonder of light, were 
in the landscape when Hebe McArthur and her Mercedes car 
full of tourists and good food drove up the village street. 

The Americans were delighted with the village-city, which 
stands on a hill high above the meadows and the cathedral. 
There is a tradition in St. David’s that a vision of our eternal 
home is to be seen by all true believers who look for it from 
the flight of stone steps which lead down through the church- 
yard to the cathedral. 

Evangeline knew the legend attached to the steps, so with 
Tony’s help she gouged out a bit of green turf, large enough to 
balance herself upon, and, shading her eyes, she looked into the 
distance; the vision can only be seen from a tuft of green sward. 

“Can you see heaven?” Tony cried. “Oh, Auntie Evan- 
geline, do let me try! Can you see God and all the heavenly 
angels?” 

“Wait, Tony, wait!” Evangeline said. “I’ll let you try in 
a minute! I can see something — it’s becoming clearer!” 

151 


152 


WITH OTHER EYES 


All the others had gone on; the child and the girl were left 
alone. Tony waited with growing impatience. Evangeline’s 
eyes were looking into the distance; her feet were poised on the 
little green tuft. 

“I can see the Isle of Avalon,” she said, “quite clearly.” 

“And is that in heaven?” Tony asked. 

“Very nearly, Tony,” the girl said wistfully. “It’s where 
Merlin’s dear King Arthur lies buried. It’s just across the blue 
sea, right away over there — further than you can see.” 

“Let me look for it,” he cried excitedly. “I want to see the 
Islands of the Blessed! I do want to see heaven!” 

Evangeline stepped from the tuft and placed Tony on it. 
“Now, look hard,” she said, “look very, very hard, and think, 
Tony, think of what you want to see.” 

Tony did as he was told. His blue eyes pierced the clear 
distance. 

For a minute or two Evangeline waited, lost in thought. 

“Oh, I see the wee Child Jesus!” he cried. “He is floating in 
the clouds. He’s coming down, Auntie Evangeline, He’s all 
shining and bright! Oh, He’s so booful!” 

“How lovely, Tony ! What is He like ?” 

“Same isackly as the Baby Jesus in the Mission Chapel at 
home, the Jesus who only comes out on my birfday.” 

Tony had been born on a local saint’s day in Canada, a day 
on which a grand wax figure of the Child Jesus was always 
exhibited on the high altar of the Mission Chapel. The miracu- 
lous power of healing feeble children was attributed to the 
image. Tony adored it. 

“O tres doux Jesus/* he said, “ vrai Fils de Marie , je 
V adore!** The words came spontaneously. He was back in 
the beloved chapel. He crossed himself devoutly. 

Evangeline waited for a moment. Evidently the vision was 
becoming less clear to the child; his expression was changing. 
It was less ecstatic. 

“Come, Tony, or we shall be lost,” Evangeline said. 
“Mummy is far ahead.” 

The child did as he was told, and as he hurried he put his 
soft little hand in Evangeline’s. 

“Perhaps St. David’s is going to be like heaven,” he said. 
“London wasn’t. What do you think, Auntie Evangeline?” 


WITH OTHER EYES 153 

“I think it is, Tony. And do you know, I agree with you — I 
don’t like London.” 

“I think Tenby and the sands p’raps is heaven?” he said 
thoughtfully. They had driven through Tenby on their way to 
St. David’s. 

“Would you like to stay in Tenby, Tony, and play on the 
golden sands for lots and lots of days?” 

The child looked up pleadingly. His eyes saw visions. 

“But could we, Auntie Evangeline? Have you any money? 
Is Tenby s’pensive?” 

“Yes, Tony, I have some money.” 

“And may you spend it like that ? Can you go to the seashore 
if you like?” 

“Yes, Tony, only I don’t like to go without you.” 

“Oh, Auntie Evangeline, mayn’t we go, really and truly?” 

“I want to build castles and play at Robinson Crusoe, and 
that’s not any fun all alone.” 

“And you haven’t got any lickle boy like me, Auntie Evan- 
geline?” 

“No, I’ve no little boy.” 

“If you’ve money, can’t you get one in London? Mummy 
said she could, p’raps.” 

“No, Tony, you can’t buy little boys. God sends them to nice 
good people like your mummy.” 

“I’ll pray to Jesus, Auntie Evangeline. I’ll ask the Blessed 
Virgin and she will tell God that you want a little boy to play 
with, that you haven’t any Tony.” 

“And Auntie Evangeline will take Tony to Tenby, and let 
him play on the sands, and bathe in the sea, and ride on 
donkeys and go in a fishing-boat, and walk far out into the sea 
on the iron pier.” 

“And play with the little children, all of them, Auntie ? The 
dirty ones too?” 

“Yes, Tony, if mummy will let you come with me.” 

“Can’t mummy come too?” For one moment he had for- 
gotten Alex. 

“I expect she will be too busy.” 

“I ’spect so too,” he said, wisely and sadly. “We’re awfully 
busy in London, mummy and me. See, Auntie Evangeline, I’ve 
got to be her big man and her little boy as well.” 


154 


WITH OTHER EYES 


“Do you remember your daddy, Tony?” 

Tony nodded his head. 

“Do you remember when he died?” 

“Daddy just went away and never earned back. Mummy 
’spects a big wild bear killed him. Daddy was trying to shoot 
big, big bears and things, to sell for mummy and me, to get 
money for us.” 

Evangeline felt a little guilty. In a manner she knew that she 
was questioning the child from a point of curiosity. Alex’s 
reticence on the subject of her husband had made her, for no 
reason that she could explain, just a little interested in his 
death. Tony had stated a bald fact; his father had “gone away 
and never corned back.” This set her thinking. 

When they joined the rest of the party, Tony, of course, had 
to confide to his mother the promise which Evangeline had made 
to take him to Tenby. He was so bubbling over with it that the 
solemnity and beauty of the great building did not subdue his 
enthusiasm. Even his vision of the Child Jesus was obliterated. 
The prospect of playing on the long stretch of sands, covered 
with little boys and girls of his own age, was a thing too won- 
derful to allow of anything else. Alex, to relieve Evangeline, 
carried him off to show him the one feature which she remem- 
bered quite clearly about the inside of the building. 

“Come, little son,” she said, “you and I will find something 
funny all for ourselves — three bunny-rabbits with only three 
ears between them. They have only one ear each, poor things!” 

“True, mummy — not foxing?” Tony put his usual brief 
question when he was incredulous of Alex’s promises. 

“Come along and let’s look for them, and you will see. I 
think I know where to find them.” 

She led him to the canopied seats of the clergy behind the 
stalls of the choristers. In passing them, she tipped up one or two 
of the misereres and showed the child the quaint carvings of 
beasts and birds which were hidden when the seats were down. 

“Aren’t they funny, mummy? And in church, too!” 

“These tiny seats,” Alex said, “were all the poor old padres 
were allowed to sit on during the service. Watch and you’ll see 
what happened if one of them went to sleep while the sermon 
was being preached, if he did not sit upright all the time.” 

Alex seated herself on the narrow ledge of one of the misereres , 


WITH OTHER EYES 


155 


and then doubled herself forward as though she was asleep. The 
next second she had fallen forward and slipped off the seat. A 
childish peal of laughter came from the delighted Tony. 

“Oh, mummy, I forgot I was in church, but St. David’s isn’t 
one bit like our dear lickle Mission Chapel ! It has no pictures 
on the walls. Where are the three rabbits, mummy?” 

Alex looked on one of the stone pillars behind the monks’ 
stalls and found the rabbits, so interlaced that three ears did 
for the three of them. 

Tony wanted to laugh again, so he put his hand to his mouth. 
His voice was hushed and reverent while he talked in whispers 
about them to Alex. 

Franklin Gibson joined them at that moment. Tony was so 
amused with the one-eared bunnies that he had to show them to 
the American, who was in a state of emotional enthusiasm over 
the peculiar beauty of the building. The gorgeous portal had 
held him spellbound. The party had left him there, and each 
one of them had wandered through the building according to 
their different inclinations. Through roofless chapels and the 
restored nave, on to the ancient pilgrimage tomb of St. David or 
the more ornate and beautiful one of Bishop Gower. 

“Isn’t this the most bewildering mass of ancient and modem 
you ever saw, Mrs. Hemingway?” he said impulsively. “The 
restored portion is so complete, so splendidly done, that I am 
amazed, I may say horrified, to see these chapels, full of the 
most priceless heritages, left roofless and open to the wild winds 
and rains of Wales! Is Wales so dead to the value of her his- 
torical treasures that these chapels can remain in that state? 
Where is all the money of Cardiff? I’ve been looking for the 
tomb of Geraldus Cambrensis, the famous chronicler. He was 
a nephew of St. David. It is he, I believe, who has really told 
us what is best worth believing of the local history of his day.” 

“Let us come and look for it. But first please do look at 
Tony’s particular find — the three rabbits with only three ears 
between them. Aren’t they delicious?” 

“One of the countless odd forms of the Trinity, I suppose,” 
the American said. “The great builders loved introducing the 
Trinity whenever and wherever they could, at one particular 
period of the Church’s evolution.” 

“Oh, of course!” Alex said. “How stupid of me — I never 


156 


WITH OTHER EYES 


thought of that.” She smiled. “I thought it really was just a 
touch of cleverness and humour put in to amuse the poor bored 
monks. These carvings are so human and so funny.” 

Franklin Gibson looked at the quaint carvings. “They are 
delicious,” he said, “but I fancy every touch of humour had its 
meaning. In the Middle Ages religion was strangely mingled 
with humour — morality plays show us that.” 

They left the choir and went in search of the tomb of Geraldus 
Cambrensis. They went slowly. Alex was surprised and im- 
pressed by her companion’s knowledge of architecture and 
ecclesiastical archaeology. 

The American was not in the least prosy or boring to Alex, 
who had been for so long cut off from any sort of intellectual 
companionship that she found him stimulating and extremely 
interesting. Evangeline had described him as “temperamentally 
ponderous.” There was a soup^on of truth in her criticism to 
anyone of her own mercurial temperament, for Evangeline was 
impatient of anything and anyone who could not think and act 
and live at the pace she did. To-day she was behaving as though 
she had just emerged from a convent. 

They had added to their party when they arrived in St. 
David’s, a good-looking young curate, to whom they had brought 
an introduction from the clergyman at Tregaron. He had 
volunteered to act as cicerone to the cathedral, but Hebe so far 
had been his sole audience. It was by no fault of his own 
that he was a curate; he would have made a very much better 
sports’ master at a public school. He had been telling the idle 
Hebe all about the cathedral, while his senses and imagination 
had been running headlong after the girl with the heavenly blue 
eyes. He wanted to walk with her over the cliffs and away to 
the sea, to the high headland, whose six hundred feet of sea- 
battered rock looked across the water to freedom and the outer 
world. 

Little wonder that Hebe summed the youth up as tiresome and 
lifeless. She hurried to join the others. 

“I want my tea,” she said. “I vote we women leave these two 
men to examine every ancient stone and bit of carving while we 
go off to the palace ruins and make tea.” 

Tony hailed the idea with delight. 

Three-quarters of an hour later the whole party had assembled 


157 


WITH OTHER EYES 

on the green lawn which is surrounded by the glorious ruins of 
the Bishop’s Palace, to enjoy the excellent tea which Hebe had 
provided. 

“Mrs. McArthur,” the American said, “I have just discovered 
that there is a service in Welsh in the cathedral every Sunday 
afternoon.” 

“Well,” Hebe said laughingly, “and you want the car to drive 
you over for it — is that so?” 

“Oh, do let’s go to it!” Evangeline said. “I’d love to hear 
real Welsh singing. Do they sing well?” She asked the curate 
the question. 

“Oh, do anything you like,” Hebe said, “only enjoy your- 
selves.” 

“The singing is very good, I believe,” Franklin Gibson said, 
as he turned to the curate, who was covertly gazing at Evangeline 
while he devoured egg-and-cress sandwiches. 

“The Welsh are a very musical race,” he said, “and in their 
own language their singing is at its best. I think you’d enjoy 
the service.” 

“We’ll come next Sunday,” Hebe said. 

The curate instantly visualized his five days of uncongenial 
toil ending in a Sunday of trumpets. Next Sunday would have 
but one meaning now for him — the coming to St. David’s of this 
girl with the wild, dark hair and the eyes of heavenly blue, eyes 
which made him feel funny all over,” as Tony would have said, 
when they looked sympathetically into his. 

An enormous supply of sandwiches and cakes and delicately- 
cut bread and butter was demolished by the healthy, hungry 
sightseers. The curate began to think that he could almost 
endure his life at St. David’s if the summer brought such 
pleasant interludes, such charming tourists to see its ruins. 

Evangeline’s good mood was petering out ; the imp of mischief 
was seated on her shoulder, whispering in her ear. She had 
come out to play. Why not amuse herself and see what was 
left of the old Adam in the new curate? Her “come hither” 
look carried him off as she strayed from the tea-party. They 
roamed over the ruins together, and far beyond the ruins. Their 
youth and their leaping senses carried their feet down into the 
green meadows and across the stream, where the ducks, which 
punctuated the verdant landscape with patches of shining white, 


158 


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were standing on their heads in an ecstasy of gluttony. The 
curate and the girl from Acadie looked at the ducks for a little 
time. Then their eyes met. 

“Such fun!” Evangeline said. “Don’t you wish humans 
could do it, such an ecstasy of satisfaction?” 

The curate did not answer her. He was very nearly stand- 
ing on his head as it was. Summer and its harvest of beauty 
was surrounding the girl. She was a thing of flaming life and 
vitality. He hated his black coat and his profession of repres- 
sion. 

“St. David’s is adorable,” Evangeline said, “a lyric land- 
scape, don’t you think so? It is as romantic as Glastonbury 
in its own way. There is a Celtic note of tragedy in its gayest 
mood.” 

Still the curate did not speak. Why had this girl come into 
the heart of summer, to flame it almost to madness? Why had 
she come, only to go away again? 

She looked at him quickly. “You hate it?” she said. 

He tossed a small pebble at the vertical tail of a duck. 

“You hate and detest it?” 

He did not deny it; his silence confessed it. Because she 
would be gone so soon, he wanted to tell her that it stifled 
and suffocated him — not St. David’s itself, but the life which 
he had to live in it, the things he had to pretend, the things 
he had to profess. 

They were wandering now through undivided, green feed- 
ing-lands. One meadow was covered with blue forget-me- 
nots. 

“I’m going to gather some of these forget-me-nots and make 
a wreath,” Evangeline said, “like I used to do in Grand Pre.” 
She felt with her keen senses that he admired the flowers. 

She laughed, for the curate was grave, and although his 
gravity was a part of her pleasure, it had to be changed to 
frivolity. 

“Did you ever make a forget-me-not wreath, on a willow- 
stick bent into a hoop?” she asked demurely. 

“Never,” he said, “but I can learn. I should like to.” 

“You choose a bendy piece of willow and make it into a 
hoop. Join it very securely, and then make your forget-me- 
nots into little bunches and fasten them on to it. Tie them 


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on as closely and as neatly as you can. Then put the wreath 
into a saucer of water and leave it. You don’t know how 
lovely it will look in two or three days. The flowers grow 
straight up and all the buds come out. You must give it 
plenty of water, of course. They will send out roots in time. 
I used to plant mine when the roots got pretty long.” 

They began picking the flowers as eagerly as children. 

“Tony will love to help us,” Evangeline said. 

“Is that jolly little chap your sister’s boy?” 

“Oh, no,” Evangeline said. “I’m only an aunt because he 
likes me. I tell him fairy-stories. We are a delightful party — 
no relations to each other.” 

“Does that make up your idea of a delightful party?” 

“My mamma’s at home to-day,” Evangeline said reflectively. 
“It was rather too far for her. I never mind her. But don’t 
you think relations do get a little stifling? Isn’t it nice to 
know that they are all quite well, and that you are well away 
from them?” 

The curate laughed. “I can never get away from mine,” 
he said. “I have a mother and an invalid sister living here.” 

“And so that’s why you are a curate?” Evangeline said the 
words before she realized that they were spoken. 

They were both stooping down; their hands were full of 
flowers. When they raised their heads their eyes met; Evan- 
geline’s blue ones got the rebuke they deserved. 

“I’ve never been called upon to do anything I didn’t want to 
do,” she said. “I’ve always done what I liked — not got what I 
wanted, mind you, but done what I wanted. I wonder how I 
should behave if I . . She paused. 

“If you were in my place?” he said. The words were drawn 
from him as the hasty words had been drawn from Evangeline. 

“Yes,” Evangeline said. 

“The yoke of affection fits very tightly. If you shake it off, 
it leaves an exposed scar; it’s better to wear it. You would 
find it so. You can obliterate self, castigate desires.” 

“I wonder if I should? I wonder?” Evangeline said. She 
had suddenly become serious. Into her midsummer play time 
had floated from the blue overhead this poor little human 
tragedy. She was certain that the good-looking curate was 
miserably ill-fitted for his ministerial work, that his life in this 


WITH OTHER EYES 


160 

remote village was a living death to him. He would be happier 
dead, and yet he had to live because of his mother and sister, 
who were probably of no earthly good to anyone. Her worship 
of human freedom, her passion for life at its fullest, made her 
shiver, as she thought of the sacrifices inflicted by the yoke of 
affection. 

“I think we must go back to the ruins, 1 ” she said; her voice 
was flat and depressed. “We can make the wreath there — 
I’m not sure how long we have before we start for Tregaron.” 

“I should like to see it finished,” he said. 

“Then let’s hurry.” 

His youth had been hurrying him all the afternoon; it had 
been carrying him at a breakneck pace over dangerous ground. 

“Let’s run,” Evangeline said. And they ran over the 
meadows, as she had often run in the valley of Grand Pre, 
back to the arched wall of the ruin, with its sentiment of ancient 
splendour. The interlacing of its high clear arches looked 
like lace work held up against a blue sky. 

As they ran, Evangeline felt that in the space of an hour 
or so she had drawn very near to intimacy with this curate. 
She knew that they were not strangers any longer. She knew 
that his isolation would be more unbearable than ever when 
Hebe’s car carried her guests back to Tregaron Manor. In an 
indescribable manner, she felt that their intercourse would not 
be confined to this casual meeting. 

When they rejoined the party, who were still resting under 
the shelter of the arched wall, Hebe gave Evangeline a know- 
ing look. Her eyes spoke so plainly that Evangeline could 
almost hear her soft intonation: “You naghty gurll” Hebe 
always pronounced girl as though it was spelt gurl, and 
naughty as though it was spelt naghty. 

Tony rushed to Evangeline when he saw the forget-me-nots 
in her hands. 

“Come, Tony, and help us make a wreath,” she said. “We • 
haven’t much time.” She threw herself down on the grass and 
began her work. The curate and Tony placed themselves one 
on each side of her. 

“Oh,” she said, “how are we going to get any thread or string? 
We can’t make it without.” 

Hebe came to the rescue. All the dainty packages for tea 


WITH OTHER EYES 


161 


had been tied up with fine white twine. These pieces she 
collected and handed to the curate, whose business it was to 
unpick the knots. Tony was instructed by Evangeline how 
to put the little bunches of flowers neatly together. The trio 
made a pretty summer picture. 

The American’s eyes strayed to it while he talked to Hebe. 
Alex Hemingway had consented to lie down and rest in a 
secluded comer. Franklin Gibson had made a soft couch for 
her with the wraps and cushions from the motor-car. 

“Isn’t youth a wonderful thing?” he said to Hebe. “Miss 
Sarsfield, Tony and the curate — how naturally they have fore- 
gathered. I fancy that young man is having the day of his life, 
poor fellow I” 

“Evangeline is a bom flirt,” Hebe said. “She simply can’t 
resist attracting every male thing that crosses her path.” 

“That’s just it^ — it’s a thrilling game. She’s probably just 
learnt it, just discovered how to play her cards to the best ad- 
vantage. Who can blame her?” 

“Her eyes are like lamps to a moth,” Hebe said. “That poor 
curate is singeing his wings, or I’m mistaken. And Evan- 
geline will drive away this afternoon and leave not a pang 
behind her. She is a naghty gurl.” 

“It’s the delicious game of youth, Mrs. McArthur, the finest 
game in the world. It won’t last for very long. I must say 
I love to see it. I can’t be hard on anyone who enjoys play- 
ing it.” 

“And don’t you ever get your own wings singed?” Hebe 
asked maliciously. 

“Why, yes — just a little — only at the tips — but that is a sort 
of exquisite pain all we moths enjoy. We haven’t rightly ex- 
perienced the various phases of life if we haven’t felt that par- 
ticular pain. That young lady’s own time will come — someone 
will play with her as she is playing with the curate, as she plays 
with every foolish moth that drifts to her lamp, or I’m much 
mistaken.” 

“Someone has already singed her, I think,” Hebe said. 

“You don’t say so? Has the girl suffered?” Franklin Gib- 
son’s voice was tragic; the idea wounded his sensibilities. He 
knew that tragedy had to come into the girl’s book of life, and 
yet he resented it. 


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WITH OTHER EYES 


“I fancy so,” Hebe said. “She is, in a way, a different gurl 
since we met on the Andalusia.” 

“What sort of fellow could he have been?” Franklin Gib- 
son said, meditatively. “Just look at her, fixing up that forget- 
me-not wreath, as neatly and nimbly as a young Proserpine! 
Whoever in the world could have played with her heart and 
gotten away with his own quite whole?” 

“I don’t know,” Hebe said, “but that’s my conviction. She’s 
really harder and more wounded in a way than Alex Heming- 
way.” 

“My,” he said, “but that’s a great soul, that’s a fine woman! 
Every day I feel that more and more, Mrs. McArthur.” 

“So you still want to restore her?” Hebe looked into the 
American’s eyes. Something like a blush mounted to his fore- 
head, but he did not answer her as frankly as he had done a 
week ago. He evaded the question by making a statement. 

“Only a very fine man could have won her love. I don’t 
suppose any other man will ever be permitted to fill his place 
in her thoughts or in her life.” 

“I wonder?” Hebe said. “She is so reserved, it is so impos- 
sible to get nearer to her. I sometimes think she’s afraid.” 

“Of what, Mrs. McArthur?” 

“Of anyone becoming really intimate with her, of any attempt 
on our part to know more about her than we know at present.” 

“What don’t you know?” He spoke almost resentfully, yet 
Hebe was only expressing his own feelings. 

“I don’t know anything about her, except the fact that I met 
her as she now is, with Tony, on board the Andalusia , crossing 
the Atlantic. I liked her and invited her to visit me.” 

At that moment Evangeline held up the completed wreath. 

“Come and let me see it,” Hebe said. “It looks lovely.” 

Evangeline brought the wreath, with Tony hurrying beside 
her, and the curate hanging behind. 

“It’s just exquisite,” Hebe said. “How dainty and fresh!” 

“It will be far prettier when it has been in water,” Evan- 
geline said. “Tony thinks it is a crown for the Queen of the 
Fairies. But do you know what we are going to do with it? 
Put it on St. David’s tomb in memory of King Arthur, because 
St. David was his uncle, and I adore King Arthur and so does 
Tony.” 


WITH OTHER EYES 163 

“And will you please give us a saucer, Mrs. ’Carthur?” Tony 
said. “We want one to fill with water.” 

Hebe laughed. “Guess I’ll have to. Take one, Evangeline, 
out of the tea-basket. They never expect to be refused any- 
thing.” She turned to Franklin Gibson. “Spoilt things, aren’t 
they?” 

The curate got the saucer and again the trio started off to 
fill it with water and take the wreath to the cathedral, to place 
it on St. David’s tomb. 

“We shall be able to see how tall it has grown, Tony, on 
Sunday, when we come to the Welsh service. It ought to be 
ever so high.” 

They had to hurry, because Hebe had only given them 
another twenty minutes. When the bright blue wreath was 
placed on the slab which covers the grave of the great Welsh 
saint, Evangeline stood looking at it for a moment — but only 
a moment — lost in her memory of the day when she had placed 
a bunch of violets on the tomb of the saint’s nephew in Glaston- 
bury. The one tomb is authentic, while the other is probably 
but legendary, but to Evangeline both were indisputable facts. 

Her thoughts isolated her for the moment. Why on earth 
did she go on caring for and thinking about Allan Fairclough? 
Even this curate was quite as nice, and no doubt much more in- 
teresting. He had told her things which suggested that he had 
opinions and views of his own. To be a curate was to Evan- 
geline a damning thing, but apparently he could not help it. 
What annoyed her was that, in her innermost soul, she knew that 
she would have given anything to have been able to put Allan 
in his place at the moment. She had to own that the curate 
was very good-looking — quite handsome in fact, in spite of his 
cloth. He was speaking to her now. 

“I will put a little water in the saucer if it gets dried up, 
so that you will find the wreath fresh on Sunday.” 

Evangeline’s blue eyes thanked him more sweetly than they 
need have done, and only Tony chattered as they hurried back 
to the waiting party. Alex had to be waked from a delightful 
sleep. Hebe had told Franklin Gibson to come with her and 
look at her, as she lay, with all the lines and weariness banished 
from her pale face, youth and its softness restored to it. 

As Franklin Gibson looked down on the sleeping woman, 


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whose eyelids were closed with a child-like innocence of ex- 
pression, he said quietly: 

“That’s what life has got to give her back, Mrs. McArthur. 
I somehow knew she could look like that. My goodness! just 
to think of it — that you and I have more money than we need 
or can rightly spend, and that poor girl, for she is little more 
than a girl — I can see that now — is worn to a shadow for want 
of proper nourishment and rest! Don’t it make you soul-sick?” 

“Do you know, you are in love with her poverty?” Hebe said. 

“St. Francis’ dear Lady of Poverty! He was in love with 
her, right enough, wasn’t he?” 

“If Alex Hemingway was as rich as I am you wouldn’t feel 
nearly so interested in her, would you now?” 

“That’s so,” he said. “It’s the tragedy of her poverty, the 
romance of it, and her youth, that’s to me very attractive — least- 
ways, I suppose it’s that.” 

Hebe took Alex’s hand in hers and Franklin Gibson turned 
away. He felt that he had no right to see the girl emerge from 
the ideal to the real. He had spied upon the sacredness of sleep, 
that miracle which gives us forgetfulness. 


CHAPTER V 


On the Wednesday night after their second visit to St. David’s, 
when a sudden call to administer Communion to a dying 
parishioner in a mountain village had deprived the curate of 
the pleasure he had anticipated, the Tregaron house-party all 
dressed up. Hebe McArthur’s maid had ingeniously created the 
dresses. The wearers of them were only allowed to see their 
own; all the others were to be a surprise for the dressing-up 
night. Franklin Gibson had undertaken to get his own costume; 
he had sent to London for it. 

When the gong sounded for dinner on the eventful night, 
Alex rather nervously left her room and went downstairs. She 
had felt more than a little pleased with her reflection in her long 
mirror. Her thoughts were so entirely centred on her own 
costume, and her unmistakable likeness in it to the great Caro- 
line Pontifex, that she was startled at the sight of a strange 
figure which was slowly descending the stair in front of her. It 
was the figure of a begging friar, in a tattered and threadbare 
brown Franciscan habit. His bare feet were sandalled, accord- 
ing to the regulations of his order of poverty. His hair and 
beard looked unkempt and scornful of personal care. 

Alex gave a cry of astonishment. The monk turned and, 
seeing her, he came back up the stair. As he did so, he rattled 
a little tin can, like an iron pepper-pot, which he held out to 
her for alms. 

“Per la carita , Signora,” he muttered, “ per la carita.” 

Alex laughed, for the voice of the friar brought her back 
to reality, to the game they were all going to play; she re- 
membered why she had dressed up. As she laughed, Franklin 
Gibson raised his eyes and looked at her, and, just as she had 
done one moment before, he started back. Surely this was the 
living Lady Caroline Pontifex? 

“Illustrious Signora,” he said, “I am but a humble friar, 
of the Order of Our Lady of Poverty. You are indeed the 

165 


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WITH OTHER EYES 


great Lady Caroline Pontifex. By the love of Christ, I beg 
of your bounty, for the children, Signora, I implore of your 
charity, of your great wealth!” 

Alex quickly unfastened a gold chain from her neck. At- 
tached to it was a little heart covered with small pearls. She 
dropped the heart into the friar’s outstretched hand. 

“I have lands and fine clothes, good friar,” she said, “but 
of money I have none. Take this, my last jewel, and for 
the love of our sweet Mother, pray for the soul of Caroline 
Pontifex.” 

“Illustrious Signora, what gift could be more precious, what 
token of your charity, which is love, more beautiful? I desire, 
as our beloved saint desired, that God may fill our hearts with 
love for the noble treasure of holy poverty. It is that heavenly 
virtue by which all earthly and passing things are trodden 
underfoot.” 

The friar stood aside and Alex continued her dignified 
descent of the wide staircase. She had felt great and wonder- 
ful before she had met him, in her beautiful eighteenth-century 
gown. She had felt how good it would be to live as mistress 
of this fine old house, to be smiled benignly down upon day by 
day by periwigged gentlemen, who had ever an eye for elegance 
in women, or to answer back with equal disdain the supercilious 
glances of the women, who one and all of them seemed to have 
inherited the arrogance of the first Caroline Pontifex. She had 
felt their appraisement of her cheap little gowns. Now, with 
the beautiful words of St. Francis ringing in her ears, she did 
not care, for she could claim kinship with his humble Order of 
Poverty. 

When she reached the drawing-room, where Hebe and Evan- 
geline and Mrs. Sarsfield were assembled, and the butler an- 
nounced her as “Lady Caroline Pontifex,” there was a flattering 
silence, for Alex was to the very life the grande dame of Peter 
Lely’s picture. Her likeness, as she entered the room, to the 
haughty Caroline, was ridiculous. As she swept in, Hebe and 
Evangeline looked and felt “dressed-up”; Alex was the real 
thing, the actual woman. 

Hebe McArthur, who looked very sumptuous as a Spanish 
woman, shook hands with Alex almost shyly, and introduced 


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WITH OTHER EYES 

her to Amy Robsart (Mrs. Sarsfield) . Caroline Pontifex smiled 
graciously as she held out both her hands to the exquisite Amy. 

“My maternal ancestors lived near to Cumnor Place,” she 
said. “I have many times as a child come down the very 
stair at the foot of which you were found lying with your neck 
cut. I hope the wound has healed, that it has left no scar. 
You had a beautiful neck, I was told.” 

The shy Amy blushed becomingly. “Thank you, madam,” 
she said. “I only feel a little rheumatism in it when the weather 
is damp or frosty. I am glad to say that the scar has almost 
entirely disappeared. Time, the great healer, has been kind.” 

When Hebe next introduced the beautiful Emma Hart to 
Lady Caroline Pontifex, she bent her head but slightly as she 
looked at the radiant figure in front of her. She did not offer 
the tragic Emma even one hand, far less two. Instead, her 
cold eyes scanned the bacchante, from her bare white arms and 
hanging goat’s skin to her vine-wreathed hair. Then, without 
a word, she turned her eyes slowly from the bacchante to her 
hostess. 

“A very decent family called Hart used to live on an estate 
belonging to my uncle in Cheshire,” she said sotto voce. “I 
heard that one of the daughters drifted up to London. She 
became some painter’s model, and later on Lady Hamilton. 
As a foreigner, my dear, in this country, of course yoiL cannot 
be expected to know all these things, but really, one does not 
expect to meet a creature like that in your house ! I feel it is my 
duty to warn you — this Emma Hart and the adventuress Lady 
Hamilton are one and the same person.” 

“You surprise me, Lady Caroline, for I was introduced to 
Lady Hamilton when she was Emma Hart by Mr. Greville; 
and he belongs to one of your fine English families, does he 
not? He is a gentleman, I believe? She was visiting in his 
house with her mother, in St. John’s Wood in London. She 
presided at his tea-table very prettily, I thought. She was 
called, by the company who went there, ‘the fair tea-maker 
of St. John’s Wood.’ ” 

“There have been many fair things housed in St. John’s 
Wood, my dear,” Lady Caroline said, “things which one does 
not expect to find in Tregaron Manor. Mr. Greville took a 
liberty when he introduced you to Emma Hart.” 


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WITH OTHER EYES 


“And so I must apologise to you, Lady Caroline ?” 

“As you are a stranger in this country I will overlook your 
mistake. But I must tell you that she is not a fit associate 
for poor Amy Robsart.” 

“Brother Leo of Perugia,” the butler announced in a loud, 
formal voice. 

As Lady Caroline turned her eyes to the door, she said, with 
a slight shrug of her shoulders : 

“What a Catholic gathering! The poor soul evidently has 
the kindest intentions, but I must refuse to sit next to bare 
feet in a drawing-room and at dinner. One really must draw 
the line somewhere!” 

“You are welcome, Brother Leo,” Hebe said. “Pray come 
in, and talk to my beautiful Lady Hamilton.” His hostess, 
with her black lace mantilla and high tortoiseshell comb, greeted 
Brother Leo warmly. “I have offended Lady Caroline Pontifex 
by asking her to meet her,” she whispered. “I feel sorry for 
the beautiful Emma, who, I am sure, has a sweet nature.” 

“Sister Hebe,” Brother Leo said thoughtfully, “verily we are 
all brothers and sisters, having all one Creator. As sinners we 
can fast and pray and weep and mortify the flesh, but there 
is one thing we cannot do, be faithful to Our Lord. The Lady 
Caroline Pontifex let her worldly pride govern her generous 
heart. I would rather that you introduced me to the Lady 
Caroline, for with her will I talk of my brother St. Francis, 
and of how he counselled us, as we spoke peace with our voices, 
to bear it in a greater measure in our hearts. I will tell her how 
often the blessed saint reminded us that many seem to us chil- 
dren of the devil who shall one day follow Christ.” 

Hebe led the friar up to Lady Caroline. “Brother Leo of 
Perugia,” she said, “and I hope, Lady Caroline, that the blessing 
of his conversation will atone for my former act of ignorance.” 

“We have met before,” Lady Caroline said, as she bowed 
to the friar, “but I was then unaware that you were indeed the 
famous Brother Leo of Perugia, the beloved companion of the 
great St. Francis himself. You acted as his secretary, I be- 
lieve?” 

“I had the great privilege of writing down the words of the 
blessed saint, madam. The greater part of the Mirror of Per - 


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WITH OTHER EYES 

fection I wrote to his dictation. I was called by our beloved 
saint, ‘the little sheep of God/ That was my privilege.” 

“St. Francis was always a favourite of mine,” Caroline 
Pontifex said haughtily, “but I do wish he had not been so 
dirty. I don’t like your bare feet, Brother Leo; now, would 
wearing stockings make you any less pious, less godly? In 
this country bare feet get very dirty.” 

“St. Francis ever prayed that God would fill our hearts with 
love for the noble treasure of poverty/’ 

“A very easily-acquired treasure, Brother Leo. Personally 
I see no merit in it, or sin in riches. I care not for those who 
ape humility; it is often to cover a pride which is a most un- 
Christian virtue, especially amongst the wealthy. Your blessed 
St. Francis had always a comfortable home to go back to, if I 
recollect rightly. His was a voluntary poverty, which is scarcely 
the real thing, or so I think. It is possible to endure almost 
anything, if it is a free-will offering, an act of devotion.” 

“I beg of your understanding, Lady Caroline — our beloved 
saint admonished us that we should judge no man, nor despise 
such as live delicately and go clad in gay and sumptuous rai- 
ment. For God is their Lord, too, and He can call them to Him- 
self, and can justify whom He has called.” 

Caroline Pontifex threw open her fan. “Then pray tell 
me, Brother Leo, why He doesn’t do it at once and be done with 
it all? That’s what I never can understand. Ah, there!” she 
cried, “there is the famous Admiral Fairfax as I knew him when 
he was a child. This is a pleasant surprise, indeed!” 

The door had been thrown open to admit “The Honourable 
Reginald Fairfax.” 

Tony made an elaborate bow to the assembled company and 
walked, like a young lord, across the long room to pay his re- 
spects to his lace-mantilla’d hostess. As he played the part 
which Alex had taught him, with a childish dignity, all eyes 
were turned on him. Alex, for the moment, forgot that she was 
the cold-eyed Lady Caroline. Seeing this, and the mother-pride 
in her eyes, Brother Leo said, in Franklin Gibson’s most native 
intonation : 

“My, Mrs. Hemingway, he’s stunning ! Ain’t you very proud 
of him? He’s the real thing, and no mistake about it.” 

Alex’s eyes, as she answered him, were beautifully tender 


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WITH OTHER EYES 


and appreciative of his admiration. She was still the mother; 
Lady Caroline was forgotten. Dressed up in the fine apparel 
of the eighteenth century, she had to admit that her son was 
“the real thing.” 

“I perceive,” she said, as Tony was carried off by Hebe to 
be introduced to Amy Robsart, “that Brother Leo still has a 
warm corner in his heart for the things of the flesh, for the fine 
feathers which make fine birds.” 

“Your boy, Mrs. Hemingway, is a mighty fine bird in his 
plainest feathers. These gay garments only prove that he’s a 
chip of the old block. They are another proof of that one 
English thing which we Americans can’t achieve.” 

Alex Hemingway became Caroline Pontifex again; Brother 
Leo had become the old inquisitor Franklin Gibson, her Ameri- 
can admirer. 

“I hope our hostess will not introduce the lad to that bold 
Hart girl,” she said arrogantly. “What eyes she is making 
at the child! Or is it at you, Brother Leo? I rather think it 
is — the brazen hussy will not even respect your habit. It will 
prove no protection to you from her languishments. You may 
call her Lady Hamilton, if you like — in that costume she is 
Emma Hart, and to me she will remain Emma Hart, Greville’s 
mistress, the daughter of a Cheshire washer-woman.” 

“Dinner is served, madam.” 

The butler announced the words with a formality and dignity 
worthy of a conclave of cardinals. His total oblivion of the 
absurdity and unusualness of the gathering filled Evangeline’s 
soul with joy. 

Tony had at once recognized that Evangeline was the picture 
of the girl with the goatskin and the laughing face which hung 
in the long gallery. But he was greatly puzzled to know why 
anyone called Lady Hamilton could have worn a rough goat- 
skin for a dress, and left her neck and shoulders uncovered all 
day long. The only “Lady” Tony had ever heard of was the 
elegantly gowned Caroline Pontifex. All the way to the dining- 
room Evangeline had to explain to him what a bacchante was 
and why a great and famous lady had dressed like one. 

“She was just dressed up, like we are, Tony,” Evangeline 
said, “and somebody painted her because she was so beautiful.” 

“And will somebody paint you, Auntie Evangeline?” 


WITH OTHER EYES 171 

“Tm afraid not, Tony. But we are breaking rules, you 
and I. We are not playing the game-talking like this is for- 
bidden. We aren’t allowed to be our real selves until dessert is 
on the table. We’ve got to pretend that you are the Honourable 
Reginald Fairfax and that I am Lady Hamilton. You must be 
very grand and I must be very nervous about my table-manners.” 

“And is that old man with the bare feet and grey beard really 
and truly Mr. Gibson?” The child’s voice was incredulous. 

“Yes, really and truly. But he also is Brother Leo until 
dessert — until he is eating grapes and chocolates, and merry 
with good cheer.” 

“But who was Brother Leo?” 

“A great friend of St. Francis of Assisi. Have you ever 
heard of anyone called St. Francis, Tony?” 

Tony gave a cry of happiness. “Oh, Auntie Evangeline, the 
very same St. Francis who spoke to the little birds and the fishes 
and flowers, just like Bartholomew does when we walk in the 
woods? In the Mission Chapel there is a big picture of St. 
Francis preaching to the fishes.” The Honourable Reginald 
Fairfax was very much the little Tony beloved by Bartholomew. 

“Well, Brother Leo was one of St. Francis’ dearest friends, 
Tony. You must talk to him after dinner and hear all he has 
to tell you about the blessed saint and his home on the hillside 
at Assisi.” 

Tony became lost in childish memories of his own distant 
home. During dinner he was very shy, and rather in awe of the 
mixed company, which indeed made an odd assemblage. 

It was after dinner that the real fun for him began, for Hebe, 
seeing that he was not thoroughly understanding the situation, 
which was rather a complicated one for his childish mind to 
grasp, suggested a game of hide-and-seek before he went to 
bed. 

“But we must go down to the hall to play it,” she said. “We 
can hide in all the downstairs rooms. I’m afraid of these 
things,” her eyes indicated the treasures in the drawing-room. 

When lots were drawn, it fell to Brother Leo to hide first. 
Very soon he was discovered by Tony — through the aid of an 
extended foot and a gentle raising of the lid of a long oak chest 
in the outer hall, into which he had squeezed himself. When 
it was Tony’s turn to hide, he begged Lady Hamilton to help 


172 


WITH OTHER EYES 


him find a good place — he had been very faithful to her all 
the evening — so they went off together, leaving the others in the 
hall. 

Presently Evangeline returned to them and said, “Has Tony 
come back here? Have you seen him? Where has he dis- 
appeared to?” 

“No, he isn’t here. Haven’t you hidden him yet?” 

Evangeline looked surprised. She shook her head. 

“Has he given you the slip?” Hebe asked. 

“Sharp youngster,” Brother Leo said, “getting you to help 
him and then hoodwinking you in that fashion!” 

“Well, I’ve certainly lost him,” Evangeline said, “and as 
time’s up, we’d better start looking for him, hadn’t we?” 

In her heart she wondered where on earth the child could 
have hidden himself. He had not been alone for more than two 
minutes. 

“No, there’s half a minute more,” Brother Leo said; he was 
looking at the clock. 

Lady Caroline Pontifex was standing below her own portrait. 
Brother Leo had been lost in admiration and wonder at her 
striking resemblance to it. Could it be mere chance? Or was 
there anything in it which he did not know? Alex felt his 
searching gaze. Lady Caroline’s coldest expression met his 
inquisitive eyes. 

“Time’s up!” Evangeline said. 

They all hurried off in mock anxiety to look for Tony. Find- 
ing himself by Alex’s side, Brother Leo whispered: 

“Lady Caroline, this was a dangerous game to play. I’m 
surprised at your consenting.” 

“And why, Brother Leo? May I ask the reason for your 
strange remark?” Alex was the arrogant Lady Caroline. 

“If you mean to keep your secret, I shall keep mine. But 
dressing up is a dangerous game where family characteristics 
are so strongly marked.” 

Caroline Pontifex threw open her fan. “Brother Leo,” she 
said, 

“ ‘No game was ever yet worth a rap 
For a rational man to play, 

Into which no accident, no mishap, 

Could possibly find its way.’ ” 


WITH OTHER EYES 


173 


“That’s right,” he said. “I guess the risk just urged you 
to do it. I only hope there will be no mishap, Mrs. Heming- 
way.” 

“The Honourable Reginald Fairfax is waiting for us to find 
him,” Lady Caroline said. “I fear our conversation must for 
the moment be postponed.” 

Pretending to be really serious, as grown-ups do when they 
are looking for a little child, they all went their different ways in 
search of Tony. At first the seeking was make-believe, for his 
hiding must not end too quickly. But very soon, however, it 
became evident that Tony had hidden himself so cleverly that 
it was a case of seeking in real earnest. The game became real. 
Every downstairs room was thoroughly searched, but no Tony 
was to be found. The incongruous figures went this way and 
that, looking in every likely comer and place, but no proud 
Tony was discovered. 

At last the mother in Caroline Pontifex came to the surface. 
She was just a little uneasy. Could he, she asked Hebe, have 
gone into the kitchen quarters? 

Hebe enquired, but he had not been seen by any of the 
servants. 

The minutes flew past, and still no Tony was discovered. 
He certainly had hoodwinked Evangeline. He was usually 
very impatient of hiding; it was always difficult to make him 
wait for more than a second or two while they were looking-for 
him. 

“Tony!” Alex cried loudly. ‘‘Where are you?” 

The child did not answer her call. 

“Where are you, Tony? Time’s up! No one may hide for 
more than. ten minutes. Do come out, Tony!” 

Still there was no answer. 

Brother Leo next called the child in a much louder voice. 

The little rascal still kept them waiting. 

“The Honourable Reginald Fairfax is wanted,” Hebe drawled 
out; “he must come forth at once, or the box of chocolates which 
awaits him will be handed over to Lady Hamilton. Evan- 
geline!” she cried, “come and fetch your prize, and let’s eat 
them all up!” 

Again there was silence, and in the silence there was an 


174 


WITH OTHER EYES 


atmosphere of suspicion. They looked at each other question- 
ingly. Hebe felt a chill run down her back; she shivered. 

“Where can he have been spirited off to?” she said. “It is 
quite uncanny. I do wish he would come!” 

“Where did you leave him, Evangeline?” Alex asked. Her 
voice was strained. She was anxious; it was foolish of her to 
show it, but she was conscious of the anxiety their faces ex- 
pressed. 

“In the library,” Evangeline said. “I went into the library 
with him, but there wasn’t any good place to hide there, and 
I suddenly thought of a splendid place in the outer hall between 
the green baize door and the glass one. I went out of the 
library thinking that he was following close behind me. When 
I turned to speak to him, I found that he wasn’t there. I 
supposed he hadn’t heard me tell him to come. I called to him, 
and when I got no answer I went back to the library. He 
wasn’t there; it was empty. He had simply disappeared, just 
as if the walls had opened and gobbled him up.” 

A cry startled them. It came from Lady Caroline Pontifex, 
who had paled at Evangeline’s words. Beneath her grand gown 
her heart stood still. The next instant she turned from the 
group and fled to the library. Her cry still echoed in their ears 
as they gazed at each other in surprise. 

Evangeline’s words had opened up a chasm before Alex’s 
eyes. She sped with winged feet. It was now twenty minutes 
since Tony had hidden himself. It seemed like an hour. 

When the rest of the party reached the library, Caroline 
Pontifex was standing in front of a division in one of the 
bookcases, which ran flush with the walls and lined the whole 
room. She was standing in an attitude of concentrated thought, 
her back to the door. She was totally oblivious of the fact that 
the others had followed her. At last her hands went out to the 
gold-backed books; she had to stoop so as to pass her fingers 
over the long row of heavily-bound volumes. The watchers at 
the door saw them slip sensitively along the edge of the oak 
shelf. With almost mesmeric instinct she was feeling for some 
invisible object. She looked like a woman acting in her sleep. 

Her fingers had stopped moving; they were pressing some- 
thing. Suddenly the books and the shelves slipped back; they 
disappeared, leaving an opening in their place. Quickly, with- 


WITH OTHER EYES 


175 


out turning or looking round, Caroline Pontifex picked up her 
grand gown, and gathering it closely round her, slipped inside 
the hollow wall and disappeared. 

Not one of the party, in their strangely-assorted costumes, 
had moved a step or uttered one word. They waited spell-bound. 
They did not ask themselves if she would return, or where she 
was going. They waited breathlessly for the development of 
the mysterious tragedy, for a tragedy the game of 4 ‘dressing-up’ * 
had become. 

At last the elaborate figure stepped out again from the secret 
passage. Alex was carrying the Honourable Reginald in her 
arms. He was completely transformed. He was now a tear- 
stained and very dishevelled little Tony. His tears had spoilt 
Caroline Pontifex’s delicate complexion; they had washed the 
colour from her lips; and mixed with cobwebs, they had stained 
his own fine white satin coat and breeches. Twenty minutes in a 
dark passage alone with his imagination had almost bereft the 
child of his reason. His imprisonment had been so cruelly 
sudden, so totally unexpected. His little fingers had found the 
magic key to a wonderful hiding-place. When the panel slid 
back he had stepped inside. But when the door closed again, 
which it did with a spring, he was imprisoned in total dark- 
ness. 

Even at first he had been a little afraid — for Tony was no 
lover of the dark — but he never doubted but that the seekers 
would soon find him. They would all think how clever he had 
been. If they did not come soon, he would call out, which he 
very soon did, for one minute seemed to him more than an hour. 

When no one came to his rescue, his brave little heart began 
to throb. Supposing they never came? Supposing they couldn’t 
find him, and all went off to bed and left him alone in the dark, 
stuffy passage? This idea so alarmed him that he stumbled 
and lost his way in the long passage, which led to the tower 
at the back of the house. Very soon he became terrified, for 
mice scuttled away at the sound of his footsteps and pieces of 
plaster dropped from the walls. Tony sat down; he was so 
overwhelmed with terror that in his hour of need he forgot to 
pray. A degree of self-control is necessary for prayer even in the 
most crucial moment. Poor little Tony had no control over 
his imagination. In Canada it had given him a magic and 


176 


WITH OTHER EYES 


beautiful world; in the darkness it was pitiless. Yet his 
brave little heart did not allow him to cry, not until his mother 
gathered him up in her arms, as a mother does when the son of 
her womb is restored to her. 

It was only then that his tears, which destroyed Lady Caro- 
line’s complexion, brought relief to his overstrained nerves. 

At the sudden sight of the dressed-up party, whose very 
existence she had forgotten, the light of battle leapt into Alex’s 
eyes. She faced them boldly, almost defiantly. There was 
something in her personality which chilled them all. There was 
something in her strange discovery of the lost Tony which for- 
bade them questioning her. Familiarity of any kind was im- 
possible. She was to each one of them the haughty Lady 
Caroline, who might question others, but to whom any form of 
question was an unforgivable impertinence. 

How had she known of the false bookcase? That was the 
question which had been in all their hearts. That was the 
question which none of them thought of asking her. 

Tony’s sobs served in lieu of conversation. They came from 
his very soul. They travelled through each mother-vein of Alex’s 
body; they swept aside the curiosity of her hostess and the 
anxious guests. 

“I must take him off to bed,” she said, “and if you will ex- 
cuse me, Hebe, I will remain with him. I won’t come back.” 

“Don’t ever leave me, mummy, ever alone again, not even with 
God!” Tony’s arms were almost choking Alex. 

“No, darling, Tony shall sleep with mummy to-night.” 

“And please, mummy, don’t ever be the grand lady in the 
picture any more. I don’t like dressing up!” His sobs choked 
his words. 

“Never again, Tony! I’ll just be your own poor, plain 
mummy.” Alex smiled to Brother Leo as she left the party 
with a brief “Good-night.” He had followed her to open the 
door 

“Brother Leo,” she said softly, “you were quite right. It 
was too dangerous a game to play.” 

“Very dangerous. It might have been another Mistletoe 
Bough,” he said. “But all’s well that ends well.” 

When the door had closed behind her, Hebe’s pent-up emo- 
tion found relief in a deep sigh. 


177 


WITH OTHER EYES 

“Well, well,” she said, “what do you make of that? Alex 
Hemingway, to my knowledge, has never, except for a few 
minutes the other day, been in this room. I remember quite 
well how astonished I was at the time, at her knowing that 
there was an Oliver Cromwell portrait in it, when we first 
spoke about dressing up; do you remember ?” 

Brother Leo looked grave. “We might almost believe that 
the spirit of Caroline Pontifex actually entered into her for 
the time being. The arrogant lady saved the child who was 
heir to the house.” 

“What do you suppose would have been the end of it if she 
hadn’t discovered the passage?” 

“There would have been a sad end to Tony. We never 
could have solved the mystery,” Hebe said. “Just to think that 
that darling child might have been starved to death all alone 
in that dark place! I wonder where it leads to? The mystery 
of his disappearance would never have been solved, for none 
of the servants know of the passage, I’m certain. They mostly 
all came from London with me. . I have never seen the owners 
of the place. Have you read anything about it in the books 
you have discovered about the house, Mr. Gibson?” 

“No, nothing,” he said, “nothing whatsoever.” 

“Well, well,” Hebe said again, “that little accident has rather 
put the lid on our merry party, now hasn’t it? It’s only nine 
o’clock yet. We can’t go to bed — I’d dream of this all night. 
How can we amuse ourselves for the rest of the evening?” 

“Let’s gamble,” Evangeline said, “and forget it. Auction 
bridge — what do you say, mamma? I want to relieve Brother 
Leo of some of his despised wealth, help him to embrace our 
Lady of Poverty.” 

“In these gay rags?” Hebe asked. “Or shall we change?” 

“Oh, no,” Evangeline said, “it will be such fun to demoralize 
Brother Leo. He’ll have to do penace all to-morrow — creep 
on his bare knees three times round the garden-path, after it’s 
been well raked, or tramp to St. David’s on Sunday, and offer 
up ever so many prayers on St. David’s tomb.” 

Evangeline’s gay words were not the expression of her 
thoughts, for the threatened tragedy, which had spoilt their 
game of “dressing-up,” had added one more link to the chain 
which she had been forging of Alex’s story. 


CHAPTER VI 


The next morning Alex Hemingway found her hostess in her 
morning-room, writing letters— -or rather, trying to make up 
her indolent mind to write them. She looked up as AJex came 
in. 

“Am I disturbing you,” Alex said, “or may I talk to you 
for a few moments?” 

“Yes, do,” Hebe said. “How is Tony this morning?” 

“I have kept him in bed for his breakfast, and he really 
ought to see no one to-day but Jennie. I want to speak to 
you about last night, if I may.” 

Hebe smiled. She was nervous, for no reason whatsoever. 
Her voice showed it when she said, “We all got a terrible fright, 
didn’t we? You look very tired. I’m afraid you didn’t sleep, 
you poor thing!” 

“I feel that I owe you an explanation,” Alex said. “You 
must have wondered how I came to know of the secret passage.” 

“Why, Mr. Gibson thinks the spirit of Caroline Pontifex 
got into you and came to your rescue!” Hebe found herself 
conveying an apology to her guest for their natural curiosity on 
the subject. 

Alex’s eyes searched Hebe’s. “Does he?” she said. “Does 
he really think that? Then the Lady Caroline is not so un- 
lovable, after all!” 

“He suggested the idea. Her spirit entered into you to help 
you to save the heir to the house.” 

“You must all have been very surprised and curious?” Alex 
purposely ignored Hebe’s remark. 

“It was strange, wasn’t it?” Hebe said, “the way such an idea 
came to you.” Alex’s voice and attitude made Hebe nervously 
apologetic; they made her feel in the wrong. 

Alex leaned forward from the low chair on which she was 
sitting. “Hebe,” she said, “Caroline Pontifex had nothing to 
do with it. I knew of the secret passage, but I had forgotten it 

178 


WITH OTHER EYES 179 

until Evangeline said that Tony had disappeared ‘as if the walls 
had gobbled him up.’ ” 

“You did?” Hebe said. “Is that so?” 

“Yes,” Alex said. “I have known of it ever since I was a 
child. My people used to visit at Tregaron Manor. I knew 
of the Devil’s Cauldron and the secret passage before I came 
here, but as I don’t want to have anything to do with my old 
life or my old set in England, as I am going to be a mere 
worker, after I leave you, and all this sort of thing won’t see 
me any more, I have never spoken to you about anything but 
my life in Canada. I am quite cut off from the old days, from 
*he people my relations visited.” 

“Yes,” Hebe said. “I think I follow your meaning.” 

“I want to begin life again from a different point of view. 
Old ties, old affections, are a hindrance.” She laughed. “This 
is all my explanation. I’m really not a burglar — a female 
Raffles. I simply recollected the famous passage and found it.” 

Hebe rose from her chair and put her hand on Alex’s shoulder. 
“I will keep your confidence to myself, dear. None of us think 
you are a burglar, or anything that’s not nice.” 

“I’m just the most ordinary, humdrum sort of a woman, Hebe, 
a woman with only one idea in my head, and that’s my boy. 
There is nothing more in me than that. I only want to lose 
myself in the world I used to be known in. I want to make a 
comfortable home for Tony, a new home.” She sighed. “I wish 
people wouldn’t be so interested in me, and so kind to me. I 
want to be absolutely free; accepting the smallest thing from 
others fetters one, even your lovely hospitality, Hebe.” 

“But why, you dear thing?” Hebe cried. “Mr. Gibson could 
do so much for you! He’s very, very splendid, I think, and 
vou’re such a slip of a thing. Now, don’t you think he’s splen- 
did?” 

“Oh, I do,” Alex said, “and he is going to help me. But I 
don’t know that I want him to, for all that.” She sighed 
rather anxiously. 

“You are too independent. He is ever so lonely, with all his 
money, and he’s got the biggest heart waiting for someone.” 
Hebe looked at Alex. “You have Tony to consider. Think of 
that, my dear. What a future it would give him! You must 


180 


WITH OTHER EYES 


see for yourself what we all see, what you could do if you 
wanted. Why don’t you?” 

Alex rose from her chair. “I could do almost anything for 
Tony,” she said, “but there are some things no woman ought to 
do.” 

“Why, of course,” Hebe said, “if you feel like that about 
him! You see, I can’t very well judge how you feel upon the 
subject of marrying again. I don’t mind admitting that for the 
sake of companionship, and for other things, I’d not keep at 
arm’s length as good and fine a man as Franklin Gibson, if he 
was ready to drop into my hands.” 

“You want to think it is so, Hebe dear. That’s why you read 
all sorts of meanings into his interest in me and my affairs. It’s 
just that he is really rather a Brother Leo at heart. The cult 
of Our Lady of Poverty appeals to him. If I was rich and splen- 
did, he could never have thought twice about me. He has a pas- 
sipn for antiques and for poverty, for reclaiming derelicts, and 
I’m one.” 

Hebe laughed. “I believe he has,” she said. “He’s rather 
tired of the ease of wealth, of the lack of anxiety.” 

“He envies me the struggle I am just beginning — he told 
me he did.” 

“That’s it, I feel he does. He’s envious of everything about 
you.” 

“He’s a little jealous of the gamble.” 

“You’re right — he’d like to be a partner.” 

Alex sighed. “And I am getting more and more accustomed 
to all your luxury, and to the ease of this life. I’ve no passion 
for poverty — it’s a dread reality with me. I believe I could go 
on like this for ever, just existing for pleasure and for the 
sensual enjoyment of ease and beauty.” 

“And so you could, if you played your cards properly.” 

“Please, Hebe, that is ‘taboo.’ ” Alex’s voice had lost its 
note of intimacy ; she looked ready for flight. 

“I’m sorry,” Hebe said. “But it’s hard to give up one’s pet 
little plans, especially when one sees that they could come off.” 

Alex’s eyes flashed defiance. “Then that was your plan, your 
idea — to bring us together?” 

“Oh no, I never thought of it until you were together, until 
I found how interested he was in you, how he wanted you even 


WITH OTHER EYES 181 

while he played with Evangeline. I only thought of it after 
you had both been here for a few days.” 

“Then forget it for evermore, you dear kind matchmaker! 
And now Em going to leave you to your letters. I only came to 
tell you how my childish memory came to my rescue last night.” 

When Alex had left the room, Hebe picked up a cushion, and 
threw it at the comer of the sofa where she meant to sit. She 
gave it a thump, a hard thump, right in its middle, with her 
soft, idle hands. 

“I declare, Alex Hemingway, you are further away from me 
than ever! I just daren’t ask you questions when you look like 
that! You are as detached as a cloud in that Welsh sky. Why 
didn’t you tell me more about your knowledge of the secret 
passage? Why didn’t I question you? You just finish things 
up so that one can’t begin them again. Oh, my, but I do wonder 
what your husband was like ! Probably in other people’s eyes, 
quite an everyday sort of Englishman, with a rod and a gun and 
well-cut clothes and not too much intelligence ! A woman’s love 
can just make a god out of a bit of very common English clay. 
But that one has just taken your heart with him to his grave! 
I reckon the only human thing left about you is your boy !” 

Hebe sank into the comer of the soft sofa and picked up a 
box of chocolates. A jet-black Pekingese, a thing no bigger 
than an English squirrel, sprang on to her lap. 

For the next ten minutes she shared the choicest chocolates 
in the box with the costly and beautiful little creature. His 
small red tongue, which he extended like a negro, was the only 
bit of colour about him. 

As Hebe ate chocolate after chocolate, she pondered. Her 
thoughts were interrupted by the dog’s persistent demands. With 
Hebe there was always plenty of time for everything, even for 
thinking. 


CHAPTER VII 


Alex was reading in the garden; Tony was chasing the “fan- 
tails” along the sunny path; Evangeline was helping her mother 
to choose the colour and exact tone of her second bridal gown — 
she was to be married with little pomp or ceremony in the early 
days of September; Hebe was making out a long list of house- 
hold luxuries, which she imagined to be necessities, to send to 
Harrod’s — it had not yet entered her pretty head that super- 
luxuries were not vital necessities in a well-organized household. 

Nothing had disturbed the enjoyment of the house-party at 
Tregaron Manor for the last ten days. The Sarsfields’ visit was 
almost at an end and Franklin Gibson’s departure was imminent. 

He was wending his way to where he had caught a glimpse 
of Alex. • He had been making his last careful inspection of the 
back of the house; he had grown familiar with every detail of 
its ancient and modem architecture. 

When he reached her chosen corner he stopped, and, with one 
of his conventional bows, said, “I have come to disturb you. I 
am going to be very selfish, deliberately selfish.” 

“That depends,” Alex said, “upon whether you prove more 
interesting than my book or not.” She held the volume up for 
his inspection. 

“The test is too severe,” he said despondently. 

She was reading “Lavengro.” Having read “Wild Wales” at 
his instance, she had been led on through a course of Borrow 
by Evangeline’s enthusiasm. She was, however, not enjoying 
“Lavengro” as greatly as Evangeline had assured her that she 
would; Alex had not the same wild freedom of soul as the girl 
from Grand Pre, whose temperament so perfectly understood the 
spirit of “Lavengro.” The freedom which Alex demanded was 
the freedom which was necessary for the building-up of a per- 
manent home, a solid watertight home, for her son and herself. 
Being, above all things, a mother, a permanent home was essen- 
tial to Alex’s idea of childhood-happiness for Tony. To Evan- 

182 


WITH OTHER EYES 183 

geline a boat in the high skies was sufficient anchorage for her 
pilgrim’s feet. 

Franklin Gibson laid a small white packet on the open 
“Lavengro” which Alex had held up for his discomfort. It was 
daintily tied and neatly sealed. 

She looked up with questioning eyes. “Is this for me?” she 
said. “Is it something I can accept?” Her serio-comic ex- 
pression held a definite meaning. He understood it. 

“I hope so,” he said. “I accepted the same from you — the 
pearl heart you gave me I have had copied ; this is the duplicate. 
Surely you can accept it?” 

“Lady Caroline Pontifex gave it to Brother Leo, you mean.” 

“May Brother Leo keep it?” he asked, “just as a little me- 
mento of that great lady’s impulse of charity?” 

“I was wondering if I was ever going to get it back!” Alex 
said nervously, and with a forced laugh. 

“Never,” he said, “if you will take that one in exchange.” 

He watched the swift mounting of a blush to her forehead. 
Colour always made Alex extraordinarily attractive. She was 
still delicate-looking and now almost spiritually beautiful. 
Franklin Gibson had for some days past given way to almost a 
lover’s extravagance of thought about her. To him, at least, she 
was beautiful. He treasured the idea that this soft breath of 
pink, which transformed and illuminated her delicate quality 
of looks, would be a thing of beauty and a joy forever if she 
would but accept his care and devotion. He had often seen in 
her the woman whom his love could make her, when her former 
beauty had shown itself behind the tired Alex, going and 
coming like summer smiles on a stormy lake, or like a spirit 
woman behind the real. 

“I must see it first,” Alex said. Her eyes did not meet his, 
nor were her fingers too steady as she untied the string. In 
spite of her obvious emotion, her face expressed a true woman’s 
pleasure over the opening of a parcel, the receiving of a present. 

“I imagine there was no particular sentiment attached to the 
heart you gave Brother Leo. If there had been, you would not 
have given it to him so impulsively, even for charity.” 

The lid of the box was open, but the cotton-wool had not been 
lifted; the heart was still hidden when Alex answered, “No, 
that pearl heart was given to me by my godmother on my con- 


WITH OTHER EYES 


4b4 

firmation. It was merely a conventional casting aside of the 
vows which she had still more conventionally taken upon herself 
at my baptism, but as neither my baptism or my confirmation 
‘took,’ I don’t mind parting with it, if you really want to keep 
the poor little heart, Brother Leo.” 

“Yes, I do,” Franklin Gibson said gravely, “for your white 
heart, Alex, is holier to me than all holy days or things.” 

“Lady Caroline Pontifex’s gift to charity, Brother Leo!” 

“The pure white heart of my mystic Pearl Lady,” he said. 

“That is very prettily said, Brother Leo, but let us see if you 
may keep it.” Alex’s own heart was beating a little too quickly 
for the perfect composure of Lady Caroline, or for the careless- 
ness which she wished to express to Franklin Gibson. 

As she lifted up the cotton-wool she gave a cry of delight. 
When her tell-tale eyes met the eyes of the man who was bending 
over her, they were brimming over with tears. 

A lover’s desire to kiss them until his lips knew their saltness 
forced the American to curb his leaping senses. Alex was like 
a sensitive plant, which would shrivel up at his too eager touch. 

“How lovely!” she cried, while the big, foolish tears poured 
from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. “But I couldn’t 
take it! Of course, you must have known that. Oh, why did 
you do it, why ever did you do it?” 

“Because I love you, Alex,” he said quietly. “Didn’t you 
know that?” 

“Oh, don’t, don’t!” she urged, as she rose from her seat. 
“Even if I did know it, didn’t you know that you musn’t say 
so? Did something not tell you that you mustn’t say you love 
me?” 

“And why mayn’t I?” he said. “Can’t you care for me? I 
will wait for your love. Just at present caring will do.” He 
held her two hands in his ; he had seized them passionately and 
determinedly. “I will wait very patiently, any length of time.” 

Alex did not speak. Must she tell him? But why now? 
Why not keep him as her devoted friend ? Why send him away 
for ever ? 

“Don’t you think you could care for me in time? Couldn’t 
you ever care enough to marry me if I didn’t expect love?” 

Still clearer tears were rolling from Alex’s eyes. His humble 


WITH OTHER EYES 185 

asking of her meant a world of joy to her starved soul. His 
devotion hurt her. She wept easily; her tears touched him. 

“You don’t know how beautiful it is to be cared for again, 
to be wanted,” she said. “It seems to warm all the cold grey 
world, to make me feel more keenly what I have done without.” 

“Oh, can’t you ever care for me enough? Just a little bit at 
first ? — I don’t mind waiting. Can’t you even want strong arms 
to work for you, strong hands to care for you, a loving heart 
to cherish you?” 

Alex broke away from him. She almost fled, but he again 
caught and held her. 

“No, I can’t care,” she said. “I told you I lived only for 
Tony. I can give you no caring, no return for your love.” 

“As for Tony,” he said, “he’d be like my very own. I’d buy 
this home for you — I’d settle it on you and Tony.” 

A hysterical sense of the humour of the situation came to Alex 
as he said the words. He had not the least intention of boasting 
of his wealth — that was foreign to him — and she knew it, yet 
his words tore a wild answer from her sealed lips. They had 
delicately annoyed her; she wished everything to come to her 
child through herself and herself alone. 

“You can’t do that,” she said, “not that, Mr. Gibson! You 
can’t buy Tregaron — that’s the one thing you can’t buy.” 

“I haven’t tried,” he said. “I believe I could, if yon wanted 
it.” 

“But I tell you you couldn’t,” she said. 

“And why are you so sure?” he said. “A fancy price can 
do wonders, even with an entailed property, I believe . . .” 

“You can’t buy Tregaron,” she said, “because it is mine!” 

“Yours? Yours?” He was almost breathless as he said the 
words. “Tregaron Manor yours?” 

“Yes,” she said. “I inherited it from my mother. It will be 
Tony’s when I die. I was her only child.” 

“My!” he said, while his mind travelled over a hundred in- 
cidents and conjectures. “My!” he said again, “you take my 
breath away.” 

“My father has a life interest in it — I get nothing from it at 
present. At his death I shall get it. My stepmother lives upon 
the rent Mrs. McArthur pays father for it at present.” 


186 


WITH OTHER EYES 


“My, my!” he said. “And so you are the real mistress of 
this place? And you have to keep a boarding-house 1” 

“If I preferred to live an intolerable life with my stepmother, 
living in her house, existing on her bounty — for the rent of 
Tregaron is my father’s until his death — I suppose I need not' 
keep a boarding-house — I could live like a ‘lady!’ All the 
land was sold long ago — there is only the house left, and its 
treasures.” 

She laughed as she picked up the box which contained the 
pearl heart. 

“This is admirably suited to the mistress of Tregaron Manor,” 
she said, “a millionaire’s copy of my poor little heart!” She 
looked at it tenderly. “What a beautiful, beautiful heart! It 
would be so homesick in St. Michael’s Club — just think of it 
there! You must take it back, dear friend, and give it to some- 
one else.” 

“Why?” he said. “Why can’t you stay on for ever at Tre- 
garon? Why can’t I rent it from your father? Why can’t you 
let Tony grow up in his proper surroundings, in his future 
home?” His eyes supplied his meaning; they were anxious. 

“I don’t suppose that Tony will ever be able to live here. He 
will always have to let it,” she said. “It takes a lot of keeping 
up.” 

“He could live here if you’d marry me, if you’d only try to 
forget, and to care just a little bit for me. Try beginning to for- 
get, Alex.” 

“But I mustn’t forget,” she said. “You all make it so easy 
for me to forget. I have already almost forgotten; every day I 
spend here I keep forgetting and then trying again to remember.” 

“Forgetting what?” he said. Her words made him feel un- 
pleasantly chilly. What was she trying not to forget ? 

“That my husband is alive,” she said abruptly, “that I am 
not a widow.” 

“Oh, my God!” he said brokenly. “Oh, my God!” He 
turned away; his head was bent. What more had she to tell? 
Did she realize how her blows had fallen, crashing upon his 
head like blocks of ice? Could her words be true? Why was 
she killing him? 

“Try to forgive me,” she said. “I thought it would never 
matter. ... I didn’t see any need to tell any stranger my 


187 


WITH OTHER EYES 

story, my poor, ordinary story, a marriage failure. I wanted to 
be free, absolutely free, never to speak of him to anyone or to 
hear of him again. ” 

Franklin Gibson turned round swiftly. A new light had 
dawned upon him. 

“So you don’t love him? He hasn’t taken your heart with 
him to his grave? Oh, my God, what next, what next?” 

A strange gleam was in his eyes; he was angry with the 
woman who had deceived him. Yet the anger was leavened 
with gladness. The thought that no man had of her what he 
had not bewildered him, dazzled him. 

“Just this,” she said, “he has ruined my life. I wanted to 
rescue Tony. With the remnant of my little dowry, I ran away 
from him — or, rather, I left our hut in Canada while he was 
away big-game shooting. I sold my mother’s pearl necklace. I 
am living on the money it realized ; it is to build up a home for 
my boy.” 

The old tenderness returned to the American’s eyes, the soft 
tenderness of affection untinged with passion, the tenderness 
which he had first felt for her. 

“You poor child !” he said. “You poor, tired child !” 

“I didn’t think it would matter. I never said he was dead; 
I said I had lost him. Can you forgive my story?” 

“Just a little white lie,” he said, “to save a mighty situation. 
Just a little white lie, as clean as your own pearl heart.” 

“I was so ugly and so tired, such a human wreck, that I never 
imagined any man could ever think of me in that way again, 
in the way you have done. I can’t imagine what has got into 
your senses about me. I never dreamed it could happen.” 

“Didn’t you?” he said. “Didn’t you know that there is some- 
thing in you which nothing could kill but death itself, some- 
thing which most every man will always want? My I but it is 
hard, for I do want you. I thought I wanted you a lot before, 
but I want you more than ever now, more than I ever wanted 
anything in the world, I reckon. You don’t know what it is 
that you possess, and I can’t tell you, but don’t imagine you 
are safe from that trouble.” 

“I’m so sorry,” she said penitently. “And I only told you the 
truth because your caring for me is so wonderful, so dear to me. 
Oh!” she cried piteously, “it makes me feel a woman again! 


188 


WITH OTHER EYES 


I had to tell you because I don’t want to let myself care for you, 
and you mustn’t let me — do you understand? You* promised to 
be my friend — you must not be my lover.” 

“My God! Can that be true?” he said. “If things had only 
been as I thought they were ! And that seemed hopeless 
enough!” 

Through her tears Alex said tenderly, “I suppose you wouldn’t 
have wanted me, I suppose fate would not have allowed it. It’s 
just because it all can’t be that you did such a funny, ridiculous 
thing as to fall in love with a poor, worn-out, penniless boarding- 
house-keeper. Fate arranges things that way. The gods take 
a positive delight in spoiling our simple human happiness! 
Their joys are our tragedies.” 

“Things might be worse,” he said. “There’s a little song 
singing away right down in my heart — it’s keeping on all the 
time while we’re talking. It says, ‘Cheer up — she was getting 
to care for you — she told you the truth because she wanted not 
to care more.’ ” 

“Oh, you make me ashamed!” Alex said, “so ashamed of my- 
self! And now I’ve pained you, and you were so absolutely 
without cares or troubles before you met me!” 

“Dear woman,” he said, “it’s the sweetest pain in the world, 
the sweetest of all the pains that lead us onwards and upwards. 
It’s a pain I wouldn’t part with for all my fortune.” 

“But I felt you cared. On the night we dressed up I thought 
you had probed my secret. I meant to tell you, and then I 
didn’t. It was all so nice, too nice to smash to the ground like a 
house of cards. I tried to believe that I was mistaken.” 

“I have cared all the time,” he said, “and that night I was 
sure you were in some way connected with the Pontifex family, 
but it never entered my head that you owned the place. My, 
even now it takes some believing ! What a game you have been 
playing with us all!” 

“And my finding of the secret passage! You never asked me 
about that — you were very kind.” 

“I was very interested,” he said, “and, of course, curious, but 
Mrs. McArthur told me that you had been told of that passage 
when you were a child, that you had forgotten it until Miss 
Sarsfield said the walls had gobbled Tony up. I left it at that. 


WITH OTHER EYES 189 

I never could question you about things you didn’t wish to talk 
of. None of us can.” 

“My mother’s father lived here. When I was a child I have 
very often played as Tony is playing now with the pigeons, 
and in the dark wood. He was the last of an extravagant race. 
The place came to my mother; he had no sons. It came without 
any money to keep it. I can’t sell a stick or a stone of it — it is 
all Tony’s.” 

“How interesting!’^ he said. “But the place isn’t of much 
benefit to you. The sale of one of these pictures would help 
you a lot in your present position.” 

“Poor mother!” Alex said. “She wasn’t to know that I would 
marry a man who would spend my small capital just as if it 
was the interest of his own money ! The few thousands she left 
me I got on my marriage. If I had married wisely, those thou- 
sands would always have given me a little in the way of dress- 
money.” She sighed. “As it was, I married unwisely.” She 
looked into the honest eyes, which were so kindly intent on her 
story, and added very softly, “I loved too well. But it was for 
such a very little time — that was the trouble. I loved too well 
and very unwisely.” 

“Your caring for me enough to tell me all this makes me so 
proud and happy that I have almost forgotten that there is any- 
thing to be sad about.” He laughed. “Isn’t it a wonderful 
thing, what caring for another person can do for us, how it can 
alter life?” 

“We won’t be sad,” Alex said. “We’ll just try to be big, 
real, true friends.” She paused. “It hasn’t got too far for that, 
has it?” She asked the words eagerly, anxiously. She was be- 
ginning to feel that he must not cut himself off from her, that 
her rock of refuge must not be blown up with the dynamite of 
her secret. “Please do say that it hasn’t got as far as that.” 
Her voice was pleading, her eyes tender. 

“Why, no,” he said. “I'm a man, not a boy. I won’t let it 
go as far as that. I mean to hold on to what I’ve got of you. 
I mean to help you to swim right ahead, to get back here to 
Tregaron.” 

“Thank you, thank you! I don’t think I could do without 
you. It’s so beautiful to know that you really care, that I can 
still mean so much to any man.” 


190 


WITH OTHER EYES 


“You mean all the world to me/’ he said. “It’s a fancy I’ve 
taken — you may put it like that, if you like, a mad, crazy fancy, 
but it sticks to me. I’m thinking about you all day long, how 
you would like this, what you would think of that, how every 
pretty, foolish thing I see would suit you. Why, dear, the very 
wind rushing through the tree-tops at night brings me new 
feelings about you. Nature makes me want you, this old house 
makes me want you, my useless money makes me want you. 
There isn’t a thing in the universe that doesn’t hold a thought 
of you in it for me. I want you to know everything I know, to 
feel everything I feel. That’s why I’m so dead jealous of your 
poverty, and of your new adventure. I’m not in them. You 
won’t find a comer where I won’t follow you, follow you and 
surround you with all I possibly can.” 

A very beautiful Alex stood before him. The big love of the 
man made her feel pitifully unworthy, and at the same time 
exquisitely pleased. She was a woman again, desired and de- 
sirable. Larry’s selfish treatment of her, his total disregard for 
her broken youth, for her lost looks, came back to her in striking 
contrast to this wealthy man’s sympathy, to his devout thoughts 
of her. She could never feel for him as she had felt for Larry 
when he had captured her convent-heart and had so bewildered 
her with the glamour of passion that she had not asked herself 
if there was a country or a life for mere mortals where such a 
condition of happiness and romance could endure. 

Stretched out before her, without this new anchorage to cling 
to, lay years of loneliness and toil, years in which life would be 
narrowed down to the drudgery of satisfying poor boarders with 
poor food. With all that his wealth could give her, and with his 
tenderness for her, how changed was the picture ! How wholly 
enviable her position! They could live at Tregaron; Tony 
would grow up in the surroundings to which his birth and looks 
entitled him. 

Franklin Gibson saw and understood something of the battle 
which stirred her soul. He loved her infinitely more for her 
humble confession of her growing affection for himself, of her 
own fear for herself, for this sudden tumbling down of her 
isolation and independence. It gave him a privilege, as he ex- 
pressed it to himself, the privilege of helping her to hold on to 
the fight which she had begun. He felt convinced that because 


WITH OTHER EYES 


191 


the triumph of righteousness is one of the governing laws of 
life, something would come forward out of the blackness, which 
would clear the path before them. The man that he was could 
not entertain for one moment the thought of Alex sharing his 
life and his wealth in any other way than as his wife. Her 
marriage vows were to him documents in God’s keeping, which 
no laws of man could annul. 

The sacredness of marriage had for Alex become a myth, one 
of the things in which you are taught to believe in your youth 
and which you laugh at when you are grown-up. But in the 
eyes of the State, and of her fellow countrymen she was the wife 
of Larry Hemingway, and nothing on earth, for Tony’s sake, 
would induce her to cast a slur upon his name. His mother 
might keep a boarding-house and work her fingers to the bone 
because the laws of the State were as they were, but she might 
not lead a beautiful and intellectual life as a wealthy man’s 
mistress. When the boy grew to manhood he must not have to 
condone the sins of all Magdalens for his mother’s sake. To 
all men their own mothers must be above suspicion. 

Her lover stood beside her. To kiss those quivering lips which 
honour forbade him was the one dominant thought at the back 
of all his thoughts, yet it was only Alex’s slim hand which he 
held in his, but he held it as if it were the kingdom of heaven. 

“Do you understand,” he said, “that if I loved you less I 
might ask for more? Do you know that, loving you as I do, I 
could not accept it even if it were possible?” He raised her 
fingers to his lips. “Pale hands, I love them. That is the song 
I always think of when I look at your hands, which no work 
can destroy.” 

Battling with her tears, she said, “Now you know how weak 
I am, how necessary it is for me to wear my armour of isolation 
to protect myself.” 

“My dear, my dear, don’t you speak like that! You are so 
young, so cruelly young!” 

“But I was quite accustomed to it all,” she said. “I had 
grown used to the emptiness and isolation of my life before you 
came.” 

Franklin Gibson kissed her yielding hands more despondently. 

“Now, if you had loved Evangeline instead of me,” she said, 


192 


WITH OTHER EYES 


“there would have been no complications, no obstacles. We 
could have had wedding-bells.” 

“And no constancy,” he said. “Supposing her eyes lost their 
blueness — what then? Where would be my heaven?” 

“But mine have lost everything,” she said. “They were once 
very pretty, Larry thought.” 

“You are you,” he said. 

“Ah!” she sighed. “Poor plain me — that is what you want! 
You don’t know how your imagination has glorified me!” 

“How am I going to live without you?” he said. “That’s 
what I want to know! Whatever has created the caring, it’s 
there right enough, and you know it.” 

His earnest words made Alex laugh. The old bitterness in 
her soul leapt up at his sentiment and devotion. Her laugh 
hurt him. She quickly pleaded forgiveness. She must not 
wound his American sentiment, as she would not disillusion her 
own child. 

“I was thinking,” she said, “that if only my husband could 
hear anyone talking about me like that, how funny he’d think 
it — really he would.” 

“The brute!” he said. “My God, he doesn’t know what he 
possesses!” 

“Oh, doesn’t he?” Alex said. “He knows exactly what he 
possesses — that is why I left him. I was not going to go on 
just being possessed by any man, holy matrimony or no holy 
matrimony. I will own myself.” 

“There are such men,” Franklin Gibson said furiously, “such 
brutes!” 

“No, Larry is not a brute,” she said quickly, “far from it.” 

“He isn’t?” 

“No,” she said. “I think that if we had been rich, he would 
have been all right. I suppose we should have ‘got along.’ We 
never quarrelled; we had no open rupture. He was delightful 
when he was nice. Everyone liked him.” 

“Don’t be so bitter, child!” he said. “ ‘Got along,’ ‘all right,’ 
— fancy speaking like that of life lived with you!” 

“You see, I expected too much. I, as well as he, was to blame. 
He was an only child, spoiled from his cradle upwards. I sup- 
pose I should have gone on spoiling him for the rest of my 
natural life, given him until I had no more to give. He had 


WITH OTHER EYES 193 

not dreamed of concessions, nor had I. Matrimony means a 
state of perpetual concessions to each other, if it is to be a state 
of solid endurance — what is called a success.” 

“And why didn’t you?” he said. “I find English wives carry 
out the selfish training begun by their husbands’ mothers. They 
spoil their husbands just as American men spoil their wives, as 
I’d give all the world to spoil you.” 

“It was Tony. I wanted to save my last little bit of money 
to rescue him from the life I saw led by so many sons of wastrel 
English fathers in Canada — loafers, drifters, idlers sent out to 
Canada by despairing relatives. Tony could easily become one 
of them. Idling and selfishness are his father’s only sins. If 
Larry were wealthy, he would simply be a pleasant gentleman 
of the leisured classes. If we had been rich, I should not have 
lost my looks; I should have remained more like the girl with 
whom he fell in love; and there would, I suppose, have been 
fewer evidences of his neglect.” 

“Oh, my!” he cried. “Don’t say that you worked for him 
and supported him, and you gave him that boy, and he didn’t 
see in you a piece of rare womanhood, a brave comrade! Didn’t 
he love you all the more for the youth he had killed in you?” 

“No, he didn’t,” Alex said mockingly. “He saw a girl who 
had worn very badly, a girl who used to be amusing and had 
become unpleasantly serious, a girl who had once thought that 
life was a splendid play-ground, and discovered that it was a 
gigantic workshop. Poor Larry! he was linked to a weary 
cabin-drudge, instead of a female merry-Andrew like himself. 
But it is I who have done the deserting, remember ! In a court 
of law I should not have a leg to stand on, or one real sin to 
bring against him.” 

“But the sins of omission, aren’t they infinite?” 

“Ah!” Alex said, “that’s it. To a woman the sins of omission 
are the least forgivable of all sins. I used to think sometimes, 
when I was tired out, that if he would only occasionally re- 
member to be sympathetic, only try to be my lover again, even 
if he didn’t feel like it, if he had cried when my hands were 
frostbitten and blistered, as he once did, I could have gone on 
for ever working and washing and scrubbing for him. You see, 
he even omitted to remember that he had forgotten.” 

“I know,” he said. “I’ve often seen that. A man needn’t 


194 


WITH OTHER EYES 


slave his life away for his wife if he does not omit the little 
attentions that the dear woman in her demands. If he’s ob- 
livious of his omissions, he’s a failure in her eyes.” 

‘‘Virtues are not what make married life tolerable,” Alex said, 
“it is the unnecessary trifles, the romance of personal attentions, 
the flattery of remembered whims. That’s why a really . bad man 
often succeeds in retaining a woman’s affection through all the 
disillusioning intimacy of matrimony, where a better man fails. 
Don’t you think so?” 

They were silent for a little time. Only Tony’s laughter 
drifted to their subconscious ears from the garden below. With 
his voice a new picture rose before the American’s eyes. He 
saw the laughing child as heir to the old house. 

“Just fancy,” he said, “how changed things can seem to us 
in so short a time ! That boy’s voice strikes a different note in 
me now. He is the real owner of all this ; that voice is the voice 
of someone born to rule. I can’t explain it — perhaps it’s be- 
cause we Americans feel more sentiment about these things 
than you do.” 

“Oh,” Alex said, “you won’t feel like that about him, will 
you? You won’t let the others know? I don’t want to spoil 
him, to bring him up to think extravagantly. He can never 
live here; he must be very middle-class.” 

“Not if you don’t wish it,” he said. “Your confidence in me 
is a great privilege. But don’t you think it would be wiser to 
tell the others? What’s the use of hiding the fact? It’s not 
going to harm you — how can it?” 

“Only in this way, that I want to be a nobody, to belong to 
nobody, to have nothing to do with any well-known family. If 
I am just nobody, I can lose myself.” She looked up implor- 
ingly. “My husband won’t find my home if I am not mixed up 
with people of my own standing in England.” 

“I see,” he said. “But do you think it will make the prob- 
ability of his discovering you more likely?” 

“Yes, I do,” she said. “Don’t you know the way people go on 
saying, ‘Are you related to so-and-so?’ If you say you are, then 
you are told that they know your cousins, or that such-and-such 
a person is connected with you by marriage. The chain becomes 
linked and the truth leaks out — you are discovered. I don’t 


195 


WITH OTHER EYES 

want to be anybody of anywhere. I always say I am not a 
Hemingway of anywhere in particular.” 

“I know you do,” he said, “but you dressed up! I didn’t 
dream that you actually owned the place that night, but I knew 
you were one of the descendants of the Pontifexes.” He paused, 
then said reflectively, “I do think that if you told Mrs. McArthur 
she wouldn’t betray your confidence. Just tell her everything, 
and ask her to keep your secret.” 

“And Evangeline too! If even one person knows a thing, it’s 
no longer a secret.” 

“Oh, I don’t think she matters.” 

“I see,” Alex said. “You think that I have been sailing under 
false colours in Hebe’s house?” 

“I think,” he said, “that it would clear up the mystery of the 
secret passage for her. Miss Sarsfield, I imagine, has never 
questioned the situation; she accepted the fact that the spirit 
of Caroline Pontifex entered into you to save Tony’s life. The 
girl lives in the clouds; her world is peopled with unrealities. 
She understands Pan better than man. I believe she’s playing 
with him now down in the reeds by the river. What a wild spirit 
she is!” 

“Beautiful Evangeline!” Alex said. “She fascinates me! I 
should hate to see her chained by domestic shackles. Pan is a 
better mate for her, Pan with his wayward wanderings.” 

“Her great god Pan will want some dollars,” Franklin Gibson 
said laughingly. 

“And some temperament!” Alex said. “Evangeline always 
reminds me of these Welsh skies — their pure blues, their flying 
clouds, their fire and wildness when the sun sets.” 

“I like her mother,” he said. “It’s just as if a timid little 
wren had hatched out a wild falcon in her nest all unawares.” 

“The falcon takes the wren in its grasp,” Alex said, “and 
carries it into the blue. Mrs. Sarsfield enjoys her flights; she 
sees strange worlds from its fearless poise.” 

“My, yes!” he said, with a deep-drawn sigh. “The girl’s 
mighty sweet to her mother. I love to see it.” He paused. 

A rolling wave of sound travelled to their ears, like the notes 
of a distant temple bell. It was the lunch gong, summoning 
them to one of Hebe’s delicate and extravagant feasts. The 


196 


WITH OTHER EYES 


meals which Hebe ordered were never ordinary; they always 
contained some element of surprise, of novelty. 

Alex’s eyes showed astonishment. “How the morning has 
flown!” she said. “And I’ve scarcely read a line of Borrow. 
I thought it was just about twelve o’clock.” 

“If we haven’t read very much, we have travelled very far 
and fast,” he said, “even farther than Lavengro in all his 
wanderings.” 

“Farther than I ever intended, farther than is wise.” 

“Much farther than I ever hoped. What a world we hold 
between us now!” 

Alex hurried her steps; she looked nervous, apprehensive. 

“There is to be no turning back?” he asked. “Whatever lies 
before us, we will face it together?” 

“I cannot take so much and give so little. You have all your 
life before you ; there are others who are so infinitely more what 
you really want.” 

“Hush!” he said. “Don’t wound what I cherish so much.” 

The words were scarcely said before they were met in the 
arched avenue by Evangeline and Tony. The latter had dis- 
tinguished himself by falling into a shallow part of the river; 
he was being taken home to have his clothes changed. His 
smock was soaking; his head was hatless. When he saw his 
mother, he cried out : 

“I felled in the river, mummy, but I’m not a bit wet, for 
Jennie picked me up as quick as quick.” 

“No, ‘not a bit wet,’ ” Alex said, laughingly. “My dear little 
son, what a pity it is that water makes such a mess ! How very 
unkind of it to tell me the truth when you are telling me such 
a strange story!” 

“I mean the me inside my clothes, mummy. It’s not wet, 
really and truly it isn’t, not a bit. I can feel it’s quite dry and 
warm all over.” 

“You must run into the house, and get your things off quickly. 
How did it happen, Jennie?” 

“He was trying to cross some stepping-stones by himself, 
ma’am. One turned over and in he went. It was quite shallow.” 

“I suppose you insisted upon crossing them alone, Tony?” 
Alex’s eyes tried to be severe. 

“Yes, ’cos I wanted to be a big boy and help you, mummy. 


WITH OTHER EYES 197 

You know I have to be your little son and a big man all in one — 
you said I had to be, didn’t you?” 

“Yes, Tony, I said so.” Alex’s eyes were half tearful, half 
merry. She did not dare to look at Franklin Gibson. 

“Then ’cos a big man could easily cross on the stones by 
his self, then so must I.” He pushed his soft hand into his 
mother’s. “See, mummy? You told me, when I didn’t want 
to put on my own boots, that no one can tell what they can do 
till they try, so I had to try to cross the steps, hadn’t I?” 


CHAPTER VIII 


The boarders were all in bed at No. 200 St. Michael’s Square. 
Lights were out, all save one in a small room on the ground floor, 
which Alex reserved for herself as her office. 

Her boarders for the most part were girl-students or elderly 
females who always found their days too long, and a few 
Colonial sightseers, who were as a rule only too glad to retire 
to their rooms by ten o’clock. At half-past ten the electric light 
was turned off at the main. Those who chose to sit up later had 
to pay for the candles or lamp-oil which they burnt. 

Alex’s venture had proved more successful than she had ever 
dared to hope. Her house was full to overflowing and daily 
she had applications from boarders whom she could not take in. 
But never in her wildest imaginings had she visualized the 
appalling drudgery and exactingness of the life, the petty econ- 
omies, the unending wants of the boarders. Most of the elderly 
women seemed to take it for granted that, thrown in with their 
board, they were entitled to an unlimited supply of sympathy 
from Alex for all their trivial woes and ailments. They would 
have kept her for half-hours and hours if she had allowed it, 
listening to the recital of their family affairs and tragedies. 
Each of these homeless, superfluous souls looked upon her as 
their special property. There was the usual petty quarrelling 
and gossiping amongst them which is the natural outcome of 
aimless, idle lives. 

The young boarders, all eager, vital students, gave her little 
trouble, beyond their untidiness; one and all of them had as 
little idea of keeping their rooms in order as the inhabitants 
of Red Indian wigwams. 

To Alex it seemed as if she had planned out dinners and 
lunches and breakfasts for these same people ever since she 
could remember. “Skirts” of mutton for Irish stews, and all the 
other strange, inexpensive parts of the “trinity of animals” which 

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form the meat diet of the British Commonwealth, became a part 
of her very existence. 

The boarders paid regularly, and their payments left a better 
profit than she had anticipated at the end of each week. She 
had a fairly good cook, as “plain cooks” go, in a land where 
more food is destroyed than is ever enjoyed, and two happy- 
natured Irish girls, who “worked” the house not wisely, or too 
well. 

The first time Alex had had to make out her weekly accounts, 
she had been faced with a task which she had not the least idea 
how to tackle. There was always the boarders’ washing which 
had to be added to their weekly payments, and any small extras, 
such as hot milk at night or special afternoon-teas. Alex had 
never made out a bill in her life; she was utterly at a loss as to 
how it ought to be done, and almost certain that her arithmetic 
would not stand the test of accurate adding-up. Always in her 
darkest moments something had happened, someone had turned 
up to help her. That night she had felt thrown on her own 
resources. 

There was a knock at her door. 

It was the page-boy who attended to the front door and the 
telephone and cleaned the knives and boots and doorsteps. He 
had come to give notice; his mother had been offered a new 
place for him, where he was to get sixpence a week more and 
where the boarders did not stay so long, which meant that he 
would get more tips when they departed. 

Alex smiled good-naturedly when he told her his tale. It 
was a practical and very human one. 

“Are you happy here, Horatius?” she asked. 

“Yes, ma’am.” The boy’s eyes kindled. Alex’s voice had 
suggested a rise in pay. 

“Would you like to stay if I can see my way to giving you 
another sixpence a week? I can’t ask the boarders to go, can I ?” 

“No, ma’am. Yes, ma’am, if mother’s willing, I’ll stay.” 

Something made Alex say, rather wearily, “Now, if you could 
do accounts, Horatius, I would give you a whole shilling a week 
more.” She laughed at the very idea; it was so little likely that 
the boy could make out an account in the proper fashion. 

“I can, ma’am — I have often done accounts.” 

“You can make out weekly accounts?” 


200 


WITH OTHER EYES 

“Yes, ma’am. I used to help my master every week when I 
was in an Italian restaurant. They had six men boarders. The 
work was too heavy, so I left.” 

“Shut the door, Horatius, and sit down.” 

The boy did as he was bid with alacrity. 

“Now, take that paper and pen, and I will read aloud all the 
items for Miss Kemp’s bill, and then you can add it up.” 

The small page wrote plainly and neatly. He dated the bill 
and added it up. It was not a long one, but it was done in the 
regular manner. He handed it to Alex, who looked at it care- 
fully. She counted it up and passed it as correct, with a fine 
air of pretending to know that it was all right. 

When she laid it down, she laughed happily and contentedly. 
Another trouble had slipped from her shoulders; she had found 
a book-keeper and “buttons” in one. She certainly had the 
best of luck. 

Thus the compact was sealed. Horatius was still to attend 
to the front door at No. 200 St. Michael’s Square, and a shilling 
per week was to be added to his wages for his weekly labour 
as accountant. 

On this particular Saturday night, while she was waiting for 
her youthful accountant, her thoughts were very far from St. 
Michael’s Square. They were with Evangeline and her mother 
in Glastonbury. It had been Mrs. Sarsfield’s wedding-day. 
All the old party at Tregaron Manor, except Alex herself, had 
gone to Glastonbury for the event. Hebe McArthur and Frank- 
lin Gibson and some of the bridegroom’s relations were staying 
at the old pilgrims’ inn in the long village street. 

Evangeline was to come up to London and board with Alex 
for some weeks directly the wedding was over. She was to 
arrive the next evening. Alex was looking forward to her coming 
with almost excitement. Her busy life had put a very great 
distance between her idle weeks at Tregaron Manor and the 
strenuous present. She had sunk back again into a life of hard 
work; not the physical hard work of the log-hut days in Canada, 
but the endless round of domestic duties connected with the 
housing of her paying-guests. 

Franklin Gibson’s recommendation to give the servants an 
interest in the concern was proving highly successful. 

In her enterprise, Alex had much to be thankful for. Finan- 


201 


WITH OTHER EYES 

dally speaking, it was a complete success, so far as it gave her 
a comfortable home for herself and for Tony. But as it is only 
big troubles which make us ignore little ones, so it was that, all 
these things going smoothly, she was able to feel more acutely 
the dreary drudgery of her life, to visualize the dismal future. 
It was not the hard work which she detested; she had been well 
trained to that in her cabin-home in Canada. It was the lack 
of colour in her days and the total absence of beauty — caused 
chiefly by her inability to leave the house for more than a few 
minutes at a time. 

Her self-examination to-night had been acute. It had taken 
the form of imagining herself forgotten and replaced in Franklin 
Gibson’s thoughts, as in everyone else’s. With a woman’s ability 
for blaming a man for acceding to her urgent moral arguments, 
she subconsciously scorned him for doing what she had asked 
him to do. 

During the first six weeks of her installation in St. Michael’s 
Square, in the “Residential Ladies’ Club,” he had been a great 
deal in her company. This was only natural, as his advice had 
been of much service to her, and the guests had not yet settled in. 
Things were in a fluid state. Her first boarders had been 
friends of the acquaintances she had made on board the Atlantic 
liner, young Canadian students, or elderly ladies from Eastern 
Canada who had arrived in England just in time to meet her 
demand. 

Once the start had been made, there was an unending flow 
of applications, all bringing with them the recommendation of 
some boarder who had appreciated the refinement and cleanli- 
ness of the Club and Alex’s happy knack of creating a homely 
atmosphere for homeless individuals. 

After these first weeks were over, and things had settled down 
into the ordinary routine of a “boarding-house for ladies only,” 
Alex saw that the intimacy and frequent visits of Franklin Gib- 
son must cease. Already she could feel, rather than hear, the 
curiosity and gossip they were causing in the public sitting- 
room, where the elderly ladies met together to air their grievances 
and discuss their ailments. Alex had already asked herself 
many times why she was feeding and keeping alive these use- 
less drones, these women who, through no fault of their own, 
were a mere cumbrance to the world. Her answer was that prob- 


202 


WITH OTHER EYES 


ably, in the great scheme, they were such as they were for the 
very reason that they created a demand for the profession which 
she had adopted. 

So Franklin Gibson’s visits ceased. He, even more than 
Alex, saw the wisdom of her decision. Apart from the con- 
vention of the situation, his own feelings decided the matter. 
He was no longer a boy, it is true, but he was a man in the 
full vigour of his manhood, and the more he saw of Alex in her 
new phase of dependence upon his judgment, and in her 
capacity as a worker and organizer, the more he admired and 
desired her. In those six weeks she had been full of excitement 
and endeavour, planning and arranging and working. It had 
been great fun, as well as hard work. With a kind and admir- 
ing companion, the task had been robbed of many disagreeable 
qualities. A taxicab had always been ready to hurry her from 
one point to another, and she had enjoyed good meals at amus- 
ing, if secluded, restaurants. And, above and beyond all else, 
she had been perfectly certain of sympathy and help whenever 
she asked for it or needed it. Franklin Gibson seemed to sit 
with his ear to the telephone waiting his summons. 

These “extras,” as she called them, she had accepted dur- 
ing her installation. They had made what would have been 
too great an effort for her still overstrained condition a rather 
enjoyable experience. There had also been a theatre or two 
and an excursion on Sunday afternoons. 

Apart from these amenities, she had not accepted a single cent 
from all the millionaire’s dollars. Where she thought in pennies, 
he thought in gold; but she might not accept one of the many 
offers which he could not resist making to her, when points were 
raised as to the practical wisdom of buying a better article at a 
higher price. 

The excitement was over now. Franklin Gibson had been 
shooting in Scotland while she had been buying filletted plaice 
and rock-cod, foreign tomatoes and other cheap commodities 
for her boarders. The girl students, who had no mid-day meals, 
only paid twenty-five shillings per week. 

It was so different now, sitting alone in her small office in 
the St. Michael’s Square Club, with all the rest of the house 
in darkness, making out her weekly bills. She felt an illogical 
bitterness at the thought of how apparently easily the American 


WITH OTHER EYES 


203 


had accepted his dismissal, how little it had interfered with the 
enjoyment of his sport in Scotland, or his desire to join the party 
at Glastonbury on the occasion of Mrs. Sarsfield’s marriage. 

Most people will say that Alex was very ungrateful, that she 
ought to have been extremely thankful that the speculation had 
not left her penniless. Perhaps she was — human nature is not 
grateful, and above all things, Alex was human; it was her 
hidden charm, her pools of silence which spoke so eloquently. 
Franklin Gibson had been the true friend she had implored him 
to be. Indeed, outwardly he had been so little more than a kind 
friend, that Alex, with a woman’s jealousy of devotion, had one 
day taunted him with his new attitude towards her. Deliberately 
conscious of her own wickedness, and of the debacle which she 
knew would follow on the top of her words, she had said, with 
a little sadness: 

“I suppose it is actually seeing me as a house-drudge, and 
knowing the real me, in my mundane surroundings, that has 
wiped the glamour from your eyes? I feel I am no longer your 
Sweet Lady of Poverty.” 

He had not at first answered her, and so she had persisted. 
It was one of those moments in which a good woman becomes 
base. 

“Anyhow,” she said, “you certainly have changed, while I 
have done nothing that I know of to cause it. What have I 
done? Tell me.” 

He swept round and folded her in his arms. Never had she 
known such a tempest of love, such a revelation of the hidden 
man. Until that moment she had but half understood all that 
had been offered to her on that summer morning at Tregaron. 
She had not in the least realized the heart or the passions of 
the man with whom she was toying. If she was alarmed, she 
deserved all she got. 

This new revelation had opened up a danger where there 
had been none — for her, at least, for her caring for Franklin 
had gone little deeper than the pleasure it afforded her wounded 
womanhood to be once more loved and desired, and her enjoy- 
ment of his very agreeable companionship and sympathy. 

Now the situation was charged for them both with new and 
very combustible chemicals. A fire had been kindled where 
before there had only been a faint smoke. Things had been 


204 


WITH OTHER EYES 

agreeable before; now they were dangerous and exciting. Her 
taunt had brought about a crisis, and looking into her soul, she 
knew that she had done it coolly and deliberately. The “good 
friendship” stage had existed as long as her human stock of 
morals would allow. For very excitement’s sake, or for some 
reason which cold words cannot explain, she had reverted to 
the primitive woman. Unfortunately she had chosen a psycho- 
logical moment, a moment in which her lover’s self-control and 
resistance were at their weakest. 

After that he had taken his dismissal — which, womanlike, 
she demanded from a high moral standpoint. He had sub- 
mitted quietly for her sake, and hers alone. 

But for her boy, Alex knew that she would have gone to 
him like a homing pigeon after a long and weary journey. 

With her American lover, it was a higher power than Tony 
which sent him flying from the path of temptation. In his 
opinion, a marriage vow could not be broken, and he would 
make no mistress of the woman he worshipped. 

Knowing all this, Alex still blamed him, although she would 
not admit it; she blamed him for his ability to do without her. 
A woman ever bears a grudge against the lover who can take 
his dismissal. 

“Men can put these things aside so easily,” she said. “Now, 
if I loved Franklin as he said he loved me, I should not have 
taken any woman’s ‘no’ for an answer, any dismissal on moral 
ground as definite. A woman would have remained in London 
just because he was in London, even if she could never have 
seen him. A woman dreads the idea that time will ever heal her 
pangs of love, a man tries to cure his.” 

At last Horatius appeared. His coming and the necessity 
of making up the accounts put a stop to her moralising — which 
to a woman is so often demoralising. 

In his smart uniform, with its bright buttons, Horatius looked 
a very different boy from what he had done when he entered 
Alex’s service. He was now her devoted slave and helper. 
Without Horatius, 200 St. Michael’s Square would have lost 
one of its greatest assets. 


PART III 


TWO YEARS LATER 
CHAPTER I 

The awfulness of the great war during its second year was 
devastating the world, from the Pacific Ocean to the English 
Channel. It had changed the social life of every civilised 
country. It had given important work to every idle woman 
in England. In 1916 this is how we find the pleasure-loving 
house-party of Tregaron Manor, who in 1914 had but one 
aim— to fill their days with beauty and amusement. 

Hebe is in America, doing propaganda work for England; 
Evangeline is on the land, as third gardener in a large limb- 
less hospital in Scotland; and her mother, who is now Mrs. 
Fairclough, is the busy wife of a busy doctor, upon whom the 
demands of war have flung much extra work; Alex is still busy 
with her boarders, who have all become eager war-workers, with 
scarcely enough time left on their hands for the darning of their 
own stockings; Franklin Gibson has been fighting in the 
English Army in Flanders ever since the outbreak of the war. 

Of all our friends Mary Sarsfield is the happiest. Allan is 
the only fly in her ointment. He has not offered himself for 
the. front; he has found exemption in his work as an ear- 
specialist. He is benefiting by the war, even while it must be 
admitted that he is doing good work, exacting and necessary 
work. 

Since her mother’s marriage, Evangeline has avoided meet- 
ing Allan in Glastonbury; all her visits have been carefully 
planned so as not to clash with his holidays, or his short visits 
to his home. 

* * * * * * 

When this chapter opens in the spring of 1916 Evangeline 
was seated with her mother in a high room in the famous 

205 


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pilgrims’ hotel in Glastonbury. Its window looked down upon 
the market square of the town. 

It was a quiet evening. Swallows were circling overhead, 
and cows were being driven from green meadows to ancient 
byres. The town band had taken up its position in the square ; 
the music-stands were arranged round the market cross. All 
the girls and able-bodied youths who were left in the village 
had gathered together to enjoy their weekly dance. 

Evangeline’s arm was thrown round her mother in the old 
protecting way. They were close by the window, looking 
down upon a pretty sight, for Glastonbury girls are bonnie and 
their dancing looked better than it really was by the charm of 
its setting. 

The music stopped in the middle of a dance; there was a 
sudden lull. The quiet town had become aware of the signifi- 
cance of war. A pontoon train, of sombre grey, had rattled 
down the street opposite the hotel. It had come to a halt just 
above the square. Its colour gave it a very businesslike and 
sinister appearance, while the military promptness of action 
and the activity amongst the men who had arrived with it, in- 
troduced a real and war-like meaning into the sylvan scene. 

The dancing was suspended while the train was put in order 
for the night. Evangeline and her mother were deeply in- 
terested and stirred. So far, to all outward appearances, at any 
rate, Glastonbury had not been affected by the war. The 
Chalice Hostel still had its devotees to the cult of mediaevalism ; 
its inmates still wove golden tissue and painted breviaries and 
wrote morality plays. 

The train was soon placed in order down one side of .the 
quiet street. Two sentries were posted to guard it from the 
curious and prying fingers of small boys. The soldiers who 
had come with it hurried down to the scene of dancing, all 
eager to join in the fun which their coming had interrupted. 
Glastonbury must have appeared to them a very desirable place. 

While this was happening, Allan had entered the room. He 
had arrived unexpectedly for a short holiday. He looked much 
older since Evangeline had seen him last, and very tired. She 
had not seen him since her mother’s wedding-day, and on that 
occasion she had scarcely spoken to him. 

Now Evangeline was nervous and unhappy; she had no words 


207 


WITH OTHER EYES 

for him. That he had not joined up had angered and disgusted 
her. . She had felt so sorry for his father that she had not even 
mentioned Allan’s name since her arrival in Glastonbury. 
Nothing in the whole world, she thought, should have kept him 
from fighting for England in her hour of need. She would listen 
to no arguments from her mother, who tried, for her husband’s 
sake, to excuse Allan. He was of military age, he was able- 
bodied and in perfect health. His duty was at the front. That 
was all Evangeline understood. 

Allan mistook her blush. He did not imagine that it was 
for his own shame, that she was angry at his civilian clothes. 
He kissed his gentle stepmother, to whom he was devoted, 
but Evangeline did not even offer her hand in greeting, or her 
eyes. She nervously remarked upon the picturesqueness of the 
scene below. 

‘‘Look, the men belonging to the pontoon train are all long- 
ing to dance with the girls,” she said, “but the girls are far too 
modest and too correct to dance with strangers. Do you see, 
mamma, that poor soldier has taken up a wee dog for his 
partner? He is trying to shame the girls into dancing with 
him.” 

“The girls wouldn’t be as shy as that in London,” Allan 
said. 

“One likes to see it,” Mrs. Fairclough said, “but it looks 
absurd, girls dancing with girls and soldiers with soldiers, when 
at heart they are, I suppose, longing to dance with each other.” 

“I feel like going down and dancing with one of the soldiers 
myself,” Evangeline said, “just to lead the way.” 

Allan looked at her. In the old days, he thought, she might 
have done it, but this new Evangeline was somehow different. 

“You never would!” he said, by way of drawing her. 

“I would,” she said, “if mamma wouldn’t mind. As your 
father’s wife, she might object.” She paused and then said, 
“I have more sympathy with the girls who give their Tommies 
everything than with these village prudes. I used to dance 
with them in the hospital whenever they were able, so why not 
in this village square? They deserve so much from us! The 
biggest villain who ever enlisted becomes a hero when he faces 
death for us stay-at-homes. I never can condemn the girls who 


208 WITH OTHER EYES 

give the best a woman can give to the boys home from the 
front.” 

She could not have spoken more plainly if she had said, 
“But you are not one of them — you are a shirker. My woman- 
hood is not for you. You have lost it, exchanged it for a mess 
of pottage.” 

Allan felt the blow. She had meant to hurt him. He con- 
sidered that she had no right to. As with all women, sentiment 
ran away with her head. What could he do at the front, one 
in the mighty hordes, as compared to what he was doing in 
his profession in London? Yet her beauty and scorn lashed 
him. He felt ashamed of his lost power over her. He had not 
moved her, except to scorn. 

“Perhaps you still look at the world from upside-down?’* 
he said. “I don’t want to detract one atom from the glory of 
any of these soldiers, but, remember, many of them never were 
so well off in their lives before.” 

Evangeline’s eyes dropped. What love could survive those 
words? How dare he say them? 

“ ‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down 
his life for his friends,’ ” she said quietly. “Do you call that 
looking at the world upside-down? To strengthen the cause 
which is to be a real and lasting victory, every man should 
inscribe his name in the army of its upholders.” 

Allan thrust his head further out of the window, making a 
pretence of seeing what was going on round the comer of the 
street. 

“I think sentiment is apt to dissipate reason and wisdom 
amongst the English,” he said. “We send brains to the front 
which can ill be spared at home. A man who has no instinct 
for the slaughtering of human beings, and who probably will 
never kill a German, but who could save the sight of hundreds 
of suffering soldiers, or discover valuable secrets in chemistry 
and science, has been put into the trenches and sniped before he 
has done one thing except cost his country a good deal of 
money.” 

“Oh, you don’t understand!” Evangeline cried. “You never 
could! That same man, if he was a man, had to go, he wanted 
to go; he longed to suffer, to take his share in the great agony. 
He wanted to lay down his life for his friends. If you love 


WITH OTHER EYES 


209 


a person, you want to suffer what that person is suffering; it 
wounds you not to suffer. That is the true meaning of the 
bodily chastisement of the martyrs. These men love humanity; 
they are laying down their lives for it, for the cause, which 
is humanity. Whatever you have given, if you have not given 
life itself, it is as nothing compared to what the poorest sort of 
soldier gives.” 

“Then you think genius and mere physical fitness ought to 
be regarded in one and the same light in this war? You would 
send our highest intellects to the trenches together with the 
common herd?” 

“I would have them go,” she said, “everyone of them, until 
the State forbade it. I would have them all there in spirit, I 
would have them angry because they could not go. I wish I 
was twenty years older, with six sons to give to the cause.” 

“Oh, Eve!” It was the old Mary Sarsfield who spoke. “My 
dear, you wouldn’t say that if you were a mother. You think you 
would, but when it came to the test . . .” 

“I would, mamma! If it broke my heart, I’d let them go, 
I’d have them go. Broken hearts are the wounds we women 
must suffer, and suffer uncomplainingly. If we can’t fight, 
we can endure. Our broken hearts are as nothing to their 
broken bodies. Oh! their poor broken bodies! I have seen 
the mothers in the hospitals. I know — not one of them would 
renounce the glory of a son killed in the war. He is dearer to 
them, and nearer to them, than those who are living. That 
is one of the things which this war has taught us, the triumph 
of spirit over matter, the nearness of our dead.” 

Allan withdrew his head from the window. “I will see you 
later on,” he said. “I must just look up one or two friends.” 

He left them, with his face no less white and tense than 
Evangeline’s. 

“I think you were cruel, Evangeline. You don’t know the 
splendid work he is doing. He never tires; he works from 
morning until night — one of the partners is seriously ill. Even 
his father says that he is essential to the cause in the special 
work he is doing.” 

“He has not offered his life,” Evangeline said, “nor has he 
wished to. He is safe. Oh, how dare he face the suffering 
world, how dare he go about in civilian clothes?” Her voice 


210 WITH OTHER EYES 

broke. “Mamma, I loved him once. Do you know how it 
hurts ?” 

“Eve, I know.” 

“I wanted him to be the very first to go. I never dreamed of 
his sheltering himself behind his profession. Oh, that career!” 

“Allan looks upon it from the logical and economical point 
of view — we must husband our capital in brains and in special 
knowledge as well as in food supplies.” 

“He is husbanding his career,” she said. “I see no further 
than that. How I hate his career, his brains ! Give me a loyal 
fool. Just think of it — if I’d been an heiress two years ago, at 
the present moment I should have been the wife of a shirker!” 

“Oh, Eve!” 

“I should. Just think of it — I really loved him in the days 
of peace.” 

“You are so ardent, Eve. Your patriotism and feelings know 
no half measures. Is all your love killed because he looks at 
things differently?” 

“Thank God I was too poor!” Evangeline said evasively, 
****** 

Next morning came the terrible news of a great naval 
disaster in the North Sea. England’s pride and glory had 
suffered defeat; her first naval engagement in the great war had 
ended ingloriously. The news had come officially into the town 
in the early morning, with the daily papers. By noon one 
suppressed sob choked the inhabitants of the quiet city. In the 
old streets, hallowed by the feet of pilgrims, you could hear 
the wings of the angel of death passing to its ancient sanctuary. 
Heads were bowed; eyes were shamed. Newspapers were passed 
silently from hand to hand. Feelings were too deep for spoken 
comments or expressions of surprise. 

It was Allan who brought the paper in to his father’s break- 
fast-table. The doctor looked up. There was an expression of 
expectancy and alarm in his eyes. Could he speak at last ? Had 
the public been given the news? He had been silent and un- 
usually depressed the evening before; Evangeline had imagined 
that it was because Allan’s presence amongst them had brought 
the evidence of his “shirking” more vividly to his mind. She 
knew that if Allan rose to be the greatest aurist the world had 


WITH OTHER EYES 211 

ever known, it would not wash the stain from his name in his 
father’s eyes. 

“We have had a naval encounter in the North Sea,” Allan 
said, “a pretty nasty affair. Read the account of it for your- 
self.” His voice was cracked and broken. 

“Ah!” his father said, with something like a sigh of relief 
as he stretched out his hand for the paper. He tried to read 
the first wild account of the battle; his glasses became dim. 
He handed the paper to Evangeline. 

“Read it aloud if you can,” he said, “and tell me if it’s as 
bad as they said.” 

“Then you knew?” Evangeline said. “You knew last night?” 

“Yes. One of the officers of the pontoon train told me — he 
had been sent word. I was bound to silence. It has seemed 
like a lifetime. Read on.” He lay back in his chair, his un- 
tasted breakfast pushed aside. “Our Navy! Good God! Our 
Navy, the pride of England, the envy of the world!” 

Evangeline read aloud the whole of the first account of the 
news, its exaggerations, and its bitter truths. When she had 
finished reading, the doctor rose from his chair and left the 
room. 

Half-an-hour later, when his wife went to him, he was on 
his knees in his study. God and the war were within its four 
walls, encompassing its space. 

“Mary,” he said, when she was slipping away, “come and 
pray with me for England.” 

While Mary was on her knees beside her husband, a little 
figure beside a very big one, Evangeline turned on Allan. 

“Now you will go? Surely now you will go? Oh, suffering 
Christ, if only I were a man! How can you stay?” 

Allan grasped her hand. “Tell me to go, Evangeline, and 
I will go.” His eyes expressed a love for her which they had 
never held before. In her hands now lay the decision of their 
future. 

She wrenched them away from him. “Go for me?” she cried. 
“Go for England, you mean! No, I will not tell you to go, 
never, never! Live your own life, succeed in your career, I am 
not the keeper of your soul!” 

“We all go for some higher reason than ourselves. I will 


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WITH OTHER EYES 


go at your bidding. If I cared for you once, I care a thousand 
times more now, even if you have forgotten.” 

“But I don’t bid you go — I am not England. Besides, the 
silly, romantic girl you knew has been burnt up in the war. 
Out of her ashes quite a new woman has arisen. Don’t you see 
how the Arthurian world, which I used to love, the old, unreal 
world of romance and chivalry and legends and dreams, was 
a poor world compared to this suffering one, a toy world of 
toy knights and toy women? This world of suffering and 
altruism, this poor, crucified world, is the greatest which time 
has ever seen. We are living in the world in its grandest hour. 
No heroes have ever seen what our boys have seen, no sacrifice 
had any meaning until now, no patriotism.” 

Allan stood listening to her torrent of words. It fell from 
curling lips, her eyes were shining. She was too angry to be 
taken seriously, but she was glorious, a finer Evangeline than 
his imaginings had ever pictured, even when his senses had 
warred with his reason until he could scarcely endure it. Of 
all the fair Evangelines whom he had renounced, when the 
memory of her had goaded his senses nigh to madness, this 
Trojan woman was the most desirable. In her detachment from 
himself, and in her unreasoning scorn of his behaviour, she was 
so desirable that he determined to win her, win her at the cost 
of all that his career meant to him. He went from her tongue- 
tied and resolute. 


CHAPTER II 


A month after that awful Saturday Allan Fairclough was to 
have joined the Royal Flying Corps. He had given up his 
junior partnership in a celebrated firm of West End ear- 
specialists. He was the youngest of the three men — the least 
important, if the hardest worked. His good appearance and 
ability had given him the position; the two elder partners had 
been on the look-out for a presentable young man with a little 
capital, who would take some of the burden off their shoulders. 
Allan, who had been working under one of them at a hospital, 
was just the man whom they needed. It was a chance in a 
thousand. Allan got it, and he proved all that his partners had 
hoped he would be. § 

But he could not stay with them. Evangeline’s eyes forbade 
it. They came between him and his work on every possible 
occasion; they accused him in his sleep and destroyed his rest; 
they lashed him with scorn in his working-hours. In the end 
he determined to “join up.” 

While he was still a civilian, only one week before he was to 
begin his training, he went with a friend, who was to be his 
superior officer, to see over a large aerodrome in the South of 
England. He was passing a machine which had been just run 
out very close. He saw that the quickest way to reach his 
friend, who had left him for a few minutes to talk to one of 
his mechanics, was to turn sharp round it. He had gone un- 
observed by anyone. 

The machine was motionless. Never dreaming of any danger 
and hearing his friend calling to him, he turned his head 
abruptly. 

At that very instant, as he turned his head and swung his 
shoulders round, by the mysterious finger of fate, the mechanic, 
who was hidden from sight, set the machine in motion. The 
propeller began revolving, at heaven knowns what velocity. 
Catching Allan’s turned head, it tore off half his face. His 

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right hand, which instinctively went up to save his eye, was 
also tom off. Still the propeller continued revolving, although 
a man's life had been ruined by its force in less than half a 
minute. 

****** 

Six months had passed since that almost unthinkable tragedy 
had happened. Allan was still in hospital. A battle between 
life and death had raged with grim persistence for the first 
three months. Those who saw the disfigured man thought 
that it would be kinder to him to let the power of death triumph. 
But youth is a host in itself, and Nature can work miracles. 

The British Tommy, facing the foe, does not know when he 
is beaten. So it was with the youth in Allan. It did not know 
when it was beaten because it would not be beaten. Over and 
over again, when life was despaired of, his youth triumphed; 
it rose again from the dead. Three times Allan actually re- 
turned from the dead, or so his father said. 

By the Easter of 1917 youth was triumphant. But not yet 
had Allan seen his own disfigurement, not yet did he know 
the pitiful condition of the man who had returned from the 
dead. Miracles of science had been wrought, it is true, in the 
grafting on of flesh and skin, with the help of merciful Nature. 
Yet still, even after six months, no one but his nurses and his 
father had been allowed to see his disfigurement. Few could 
have borne it. 

During those six months, Evangeline had lived in an agony 
of remorse. His accident had been her fault! That was her 
cry. But for her, Allan would never have visited the aerodrome; 
but for her he would still have been relieving the misery of 
gun-deafened soldiers. She realized now how deafness isolated 
them and held them in a world of loneliness. Deafness with 
its accompanying solitude seemed to her now far less bearable 
than the sightlessness of the blind, for the blind are not cut off 
from the fellowship and sympathy of mankind; they do not 
live in a world apart. Deafness isolates; blindness gives a 
super-sight. 

Her work as a gardener helped her. It saved her reason. 
Her passionate love of Nature and the wild open skies was 
a merciful ordaining. In the grounds of the hospital in which 


WITH OTHER EYES 215 

she worked, her surroundings were glorious. Mountains, rivers, 
and lochs were all within reach* of her fleet feet. 

She had no knowledge of the awfulness of Allan’s condition, 
even though she knew that he had lost his right eye and his 
right hand. She had no idea that there was scarcely a man 
in the great hospital for the limbless who would have exchanged 
places with him had they seen him. Both her mother and Allan’s 
father had spared her the truth. 

“Let us first see what Nature and science can do for him,” 
the doctor had said, “before we torture still further her stricken 
youth. If only it had been a soldier’s wound, if he had met this 
most hideous of calamities fighting, where others have met their 
glorious deaths!” That was his father’s cry. 


CHAPTER III 


1917 

Alex was again making up her accounts. It was Saturday 
night, and she was seated as we left her four years ago, in her 
little office, adding up her weekly bills. 

Horatius was now seventeen-and-a-half, well-developed and 
tall for his years. His country had accepted the truth of his 
statement that he was eighteen. This was his last night in St. 
Michael’s Square. On Monday he was to join His Majesty’s 
Forces, and begin his training for the cause. 

Alex finished her accounts; Horatius had finished his last 
sum in addition of the weekly fees of the boarders in St. 
Michael’s Club. His expression, which was open and candid, 
had been of value to him when he told his lie and took the 
oath of allegiance. For the last two years he had acted as 
butler and general factotum in the boarding-house. His pride 
in the place was unbounded; he looked upon it as a child of 
his own creation. He hated leaving it to the care of any casual 
fellow who might follow in his footsteps. No-one, he felt 
certain, would take his pride in laying the tables and in keeping 
the place like a small, well-run hotel; no-one would save his 
pretty mistress the trouble he did. His knowledge of her con- 
cerns and his interest in them had been of inestimable value 
to Alex. 

“Well, good-bye, Horatius,” Alex said, as the youth stood 
with suspiciously moist eyes waiting for his dismissal. “It 
will be all in keeping with my good luck if you get a ‘Blighty’ 
just enough to let you come back to St. Michael’s Club for 
good. Remember, the post will be open to you — and a better 
one — if you should want it. We shall have to extend our 
premises again — I can see that.” 

“Thank you, ma’am,” Horatius said. “I want to go to the 
front — I must go. But I don’t like leaving you, and you’ll be 

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217 


so shorthanded, ma’am. And Master Tony — I feels for him 
just what I feel for the kids at home.” 

Alex smiled. ‘‘Never mind, something will turn up for me. 
It always does — you know my luck. The sun always shines 
twice as brightly after some horrid black day.” She took his 
shy hand. “I remember so well, Horatius, how you came to 
my help the first night I had to make out the bills; I was in 
despair. Like Horatius of old, right nobly have you guarded 
the gate.” 

“I’ve done the accounts ever since, ma’am.” 

“Yes,” Alex said, “for four years. Just think how we have 
grown and developed since then! Two houses now, packed 
with boarders! The war has increased the demand for my 
rooms, and I thought it would ruin me. Our worst fears are 
never realized, Horatius.” 

“Because you are so fine, ma’am,” he said, “always think- 
ing of your good luck and never noticing your misfortunes.” 

The youth’s admiration pleased her. It was so sincere, so 
honest, and — although she did not know it — well-merited. 

With a sudden* turn on his heel, he went out of the room 
and left her. A soldier going to face the strongest foe the 
world has ever seen, must not cry, and tears were dangerously 
near. Besides, something had filled his throat; it had come 
suddenly from he did not know where. 

“Good luck to you, Horatius!” Alex said. “I’ll keep my 
eye on your mother and little Alf. If he’s ever strong enough, 
he shall keep the gate until you return to your second home.” 

The door was shut and the boy had gone, gone to train for 
the boys’ war, which is to liberate the world and imprison her 
war-lords. 

Alex put her head between her two hands and thought with 
closed eyes. Another, and yet another had gone. Was this 
call on the youth of England, on its perfection of physique and 
manhood, never to stop? Was it only to stop when none but 
the halt and the lame and the blind were left? Just when this 
lad was old enough to really be of great help to his mother, 
he had gone from her, and Alex knew that she would not have 
had him stay, not even for the six months which were still hers 
by right of his age. Horatius knew Alex’s business better 
than she knew it herself. His quick Cockney brains and re- 


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WITH OTHER EYES 


tentive memory had made him acquainted with the coming and 
going of almost every boarder who had ever lived in the house. 
He knew their failings and their virtues and their financial 
state. 

Alex sat motionless. The house was in silence; all lights 
were out. Her factotum’s departure had made her retrospective. 
Her mind travelled over the years of her residence in St. 
Michael’s Square. She reviewed her prosperity with a calm 
and satisfied mind. How wonderful it had all been! How 
well fate had treated her! Since the war, how far less dreary 
and objectless her occupation had become, how different the 
lives of the women for whom she catered ! They were all human 
beings now, all vitalized by the war. There was not an idle 
hand in the house. Every woman in it, young and old, was 
doing good and necessary work. Feeding them economically 
was practically war-work. 

It was almost eleven o’clock, but Alex was still thinking and 
reviewing her present position, as compared with her former 
life before she had started in her venture in St. Michael’s 
Square. 

She was twenty-eight years old now, but she was conscious 
of the fact that she looked much younger than she had done 
at Tregaron Manor, four years ago. Her youth had come back 
to her. It had been cheated of six precious years; it was 
making up for those years which her life in the log-hut had 
eaten up. It seemed to the boarders who watched her that 
each day she developed in beauty and in health. By nature 
Alex had been meant for a strong, healthy woman; her ill- 
health had been the result of the supertax on her strength 
between the ages of eighteen and twenty-four. 

The last four years, in spite of the war, had been kindly 
years for Alex; she had the optimistic temperament, which 
views life from a gracious and not a grousing standpoint. She 
never made troubles out of trifles. 

During these four years she had heard nothing of Larry. 
Often and often she had wondered what had become of him, 
if, by any chance, he had joined the Canadian Army and was 
fighting in France. He was no coward and he came of a 
fighting stock. But would his innate selfishness allow him to 


219 


WITH OTHER EYES 

step into such discomfort, to willingly endure hardships? She 
doubted it. She wished, for Tony’s sake, that she could be- 
lieve that he was fighting; she would have liked to think that 
her boy's father was in it. Even if he was a bad husband, he 
might be a very fine soldier. For her old love’s sake, she hoped 
that he had not failed the land which had given him birth 
as he had failed the woman whom he had loved and who had 
given birth to his son. 

She had not thought of these things so keenly until to-night. 
It was Horatius’s going that recalled them, the fact that even 
her charwoman had more to be proud of than she had. 

The telephone-bell startled her. It was late for it to ring. 
She took up the receiver, which was lying beside her on her 
desk. Her heart was beating, for no reason really, but the 
unexpected interruption to her reverie, and the lateness of 
the hour. She could scarcely hold the receiver to her ear. 

“Is that 200, St. Michael’s Square?” a voice said. 

“Yes, this is the Ladies’ Residential Club, St. Michael’s 
Square.” 

“Can I speak to Mrs. Hemingway?” 

“It is Mrs. Hemingway who is speaking.” 

“Oh!” There was a pause; someone was thinking out a 
message. Then the voice said, “This is 60790 Mayfair, Lady 
Wessex’s private hospital. Can you hear? Wait a moment. 
I will ask them to clear the line, there is such a buzzing.” 

Alex waited. A thousand probabilities rushed through her 
mind. What could she be wanted for? Who could be in the 
hospital that she knew? 

“Hallo!” she answered, when the voice asked again, “Are 
you there? Can you hear? — is that better?” 

“Yes, I can hear quite distinctly.” 

“We have a soldier here who would like to see you. I 
promised to ring you up and ask you if you could come.” 

“Certainly I will. What is his name?” Alex’s heart was 
now thumping against her side. She spoke breathlessly. What 
name would she hear? 

“He is an American who has been in our Army ever since 
the beginning of the war, a private — Franklin Gibson. Do you 
know him?” 

“Oh,” Alex said, “of course I know him. Is he badly 


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WITH OTHER EYES 


wounded ?” Her voice was scarcely audible at the other end 
of the telephone. 

“I’m afraid he is. Could you come and see him to-morrow?” 

“Yes. When can I come? At what time?” 

“At three o’clock; you can see him for about half-an-hour. 
You must not stay longer; he is very weak.” 

“How long has he been in hospital?” 

“Only two days. As soon as he was conscious he asked for 
you, if we could let you know. He had your address in his 
pocket-book. We think it may do him good to see you, if you 
will be careful not to excite or tire him.” 

“I will come,” Alex said. “Tell him I will come.” 

“Good-night,” the voice said. The next second there was 
silence, and Alex put down the receiver. 

For half-an-hour she sat motionless, while her brain worked 
with an exhausting rapidity. She visualized over and over 
again the day when Franklin had said good-bye to her, the 
day before he went to France, the day he had walked down 
the street and left her standing on the doorstep, watching his 
disappearing figure. How well she remembered Horatius’s 
words, for he too was watching him with admiring eyes. 

“He won’t look back, ma’am,” he had said, “he won’t look 
back.” 

Nor did he. He walked with bent head and hurrying foot- 
steps down the long square. She had never seen him since. 

For one moment he had folded her in his arms in that very 
room. He had asked for no response, yet she had raised her 
lips to his. They were his, and for one eternal moment Franklin 
Gibson drank deeply of the Kingdom of Heaven. Surely he 
deserved her fond embrace, and she, as a woman, had she not 
the right to bestow it upon this soldier, who, while belonging 
to a still neutral country, was going to fight side by side with 
her countrymen in the trenches? He was eager and willing 
to lay down his life for the cause of humanity. A beautiful and 
very feminine humanity had been her thanks to him for his 
sacrifice. 


CHAPTER IV 


Punctually at three o’clock the following day Alex found 
herself being taken up in a lift to Ward A3 in Lady Wessex’s 
Hospital in Curzon Street. Lady Wessex was the American 
wife of an English peer, who had married her for her millions 
and fallen in love with her after their marriage for her charm 
and sweetness of character. 

When the war broke out and she discovered that great num- 
bers of her fellow-countrymen were fighting in France on the 
side of the Allies, she took one of the finest mansions in May- 
fair — there were many to let at the time, owing to financial 
difficulties brought about by the war — and soon converted it into 
one of the most perfectly-equipped private hospitals in the 
Kingdom. Her V.A.D. staff consisted for the greater part of 
American girls domiciled in London. 

Alex was not prepared for such magnificence as surrounded 
her directly the big front door was opened. To reach the lift 
which was to take her up to Ward A3, she had to pass through 
a stately hall, from which branched off a staircase wide enough 
and low enough in gradient for a mediaeval procession of 
cardinals and cardinals’ secretaries, and all the stupendous 
retinue of the pompous Vatican days, to sweep down with- 
out indignity or lack of grace. 

The girl who took Alex up in the lift was dressed in an 
overall of lettuce-green silk. Alex’s quick eye detected the 
perfect art in its apparent simplicity. A heavy necklace of 
yolk-of-egg amber beads hung from her slender throat. 

A little amazed at all the beauty of her surroundings, Alex 
stepped out of the lift on to the first landing, where a V. A. D., 
spotlessly aproned and becomingly capped, conducted her to 
A3 Ward. When she reached the door she stopped. 

Alex was astonished at the magnificence and almost royal 
splendour of the house, its mural decorations of tapestries and 
old paintings, some of them the originals of coloured prints 
with which she had been familiar all her life. 

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WITH OTHER EYES 


The V.A.D. entered the room while Alex waited outside the 
door. Presently she returned, accompanied by the Day-Sister 
of the Ward. 

When the sister saw Alex, she said, “I’m so glad you have 
come. The doctor thinks it is his only hope, the one thing 
that may rouse him.” 

“Oh!” Alex said. “Is he as bad as that?” 

“He is terribly weak. In France he had so many opera- 
tions — septic poisoning from shrapnel. And now he seems not 
to care. If only you could rouse him, make him want to live!” 
The delicate-eyed woman looked at Alex. Her manner seemed 
to say, “We trust to you to do this for us. We have done all 
that care and skill can do — love must do the rest.” 

She had recognized Alex as the original of a little blood- 
stained photograph which lay in a breast-pocket-book in Private 
Gibson’s bedside locker. It was one which Alex had had taken, 
at his request, before he left for France. 

“I will leave you with him,” the sister said, “and Nurse 
Deland will tell you when you must go.” 

“Thank you,” Alex said. “I feel rather nervous. I have 
never seen anyone very, very ill. I hope I shan’t do him more 
harm than good.” 

“I don’t think you will. Just keep the thought uppermost 
in your mind that you are there to help us, and not to excite 
him. Try not to look shocked at the change you will see in 
him — remember, he has been at death’s door for many weeks.” 

Alex, by a supreme effort, strung herself up to meet the 
situation. The ordeal was a trying one. She was not a relative 
of the sick man, and could not behave as his lover. 

She had to walk the whole length of a very long room to 
reach Private Gibson’s bed. As she walked she looked at the 
occupant of each bed to see if it was Franklin. When she 
reached the end of the ward, she was going to turn back and 
walk down the other side, for she had not seen him, when 
Nurse Deland who had been busy with the dressing of a wound 
when she entered the ward, came to her assistance: “He is 
there.” She nodded towards a bed, the third from where they 
stood. “You are Mrs. Hemingway?” she asked. 

“Yes,” Alex said. “But that is not my friend, Mr. Gibson.” 


WITH OTHER EYES 223 

“I’m afraid it is, Mrs. Hemingway. I will take you to 
him.” 

When they reached the bed, the nurse went close up to the 
patient and said, “Gibson, your friend has come to see you. 
Can you speak to her?” 

As she spoke, she pulled back the clothes from his face, so 
that Alex could see him more distinctly. 

Alex had expected to see an agonized, shattered-looking man, 
but not an object like the one that lay before her on the narrow 
bed. The big-framed Franklin Gibson whom she had known 
had changed into a shrivelled, ugly yellow thing, inhuman in its 
stillness. The large face, with its rugged features, had shrunk 
almost to nothing; the clear, inquisitive eyes had fallen back 
into his head. This was a ghastly mockery of a man ! It bore 
no resemblance to the one whom she had known, whose most 
striking characteristics had been his physical fitness and in- 
tellectual inquisitiveness. 

Five yellow fingers, like the claw of a dead turkey, fumbled 
their way above the bedclothes. Alex took the ghastly thing 
in her warm supple hands and held it. Her pale hands, that 
he loved, were mockingly human compared to the yellow thing 
they held. 

As his tired eyes recognized her, an expression of relief 
humanized them. It was the only emotion he was capable of 
expressing. He looked from Alex to the nurse, who instantly 
bent forward. He wished to speak to her. It was to ask her 
to give him some drops of the liquid which for a short time 
permitted him to think clearly and gave him strength to 
speak. 

When he had swallowed the drops, the nurse left him, and 
Alex sat down on a chair which the nurse had placed for her 
near the bed. 

A painted ceiling, gay with classic figures, smiled down upon 
the sick man on the white bed. Pan and a trio of laughing 
girls frolicked and played in the sunlight. Their mockery 
hurt Alex. 

“He will rally in a few minutes,” the nurse said before she 
went away. “The excitement of waiting for you has ex- 
hausted him. There is something important he wishes to say, 


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I imagine, so I should advise you just to wait without speaking 
until he begins. He has asked for you so often.” 

Alex nodded her head in response to the nurse’s advice. In- 
deed, she did not know what to say or do. She was quite un- 
used to illness. How could she really feel that this yellow 
skeleton, with a head and neck so thin that every bone showed 
almost as clearly as the bones of a skull, was the same man 
who had held her in his strong arms on the day of their part- 
ing? She waited in perfect silence for some minutes, while her 
eyes took in each detail of the luxuriously-appointed ward. 
After a little time, and when still nothing happened, she de- 
termined to see if he was aware of her presence; she would let 
go his cold fingers, withdraw her hands. 

Instantly pleading eyes were turned to her, anxious eyes, 
like the eyes of a lonely dog. 

Alex’s feelings changed. She bent her head and pressed his 
cold fingers to her lips, as though asking forgiveness for her 
thoughts. To her surprise, she felt a slight tremor run through 
the sick man. She kept her lips pressed to his fingers; her 
breath would warm them; her strong womanhood, so close to 
his ebbing manhood, might give him vitality. He must be fed 
by her strength. She braced herself to will him back to health. 
She had so much to offer from the fountain of her vitality and 
womanhood. 

* * * * * * 

Her will, or the drops which the nurse had administered, 
did their work. With her head bent low, and her lips pressed 
on his hands, she was listening with all her senses to what he 
was telling her — her eyes as well as her ears, her heart and 
her very bowels, seemed to have been given the power of hear- 
ing. Every sense of her was listening to the words which 
seemed to travel to her from “the clear seat and remote throne 
of souls.” 

“Fate arranges these things strangely, beloved,” he said. “It 
fell to my lot to save your husband’s life ... he was 
wounded.” 

A kiss of still greater tenderness was Alex’s only answer. But 
for Franklin there was no anguish of love which is love’s true 
perfection in her kiss. Death was too near, passion too remote. 

“Your husband was lying by the road-side as our company 


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came along. . . . He was bleeding to death. Able officers 
are too valuable to be left as soldiers must be left, and are 
left . . . two of us were despatched to bring bearers 

. . . the other man never reached the R.A.M.C.” 

“Yes,” Alex said. Her voice was dull and stricken. “You 
gave your life for his, a good life for a worthless one. Oh, 
Franklin!” 

“He was yours,” he said faintly. “Two of us were asked 
to volunteer . . . knowing he was yours, could I have 

refused? . . . He is the father of your son.” 

“There were others — they could have gone.” 

“They did not know . . . to me he was the husband of 
the woman I love ... on his death or life did not hang 
the brightness or darkness of their days. If he died you were 
free?” 

“And you knew him ? How did you know him ?” 

“I met him at Havre before the offensive. I learnt then 
who he was.” 

“You are talking too much,” Alex said. “Tell me more 
another time.” Indeed, she wished to hear no more. How 
could she guard him against excitement if she herself could not 
control or hide her emotion ? The nurse had said that she was 
to remember that she was there to help them, and not excite 
him. 

“No, no. There may be no other chance. You have lent 
me strength, I must use it. ... I must speak and tell you 
all while I can. I don’t know where he is now, but with care 
he would recover. He was shot through the shoulder and 
wounded in one foot.” 

“Yes,” Alex said. She spoke unfeelingly. Her mind was 
travelling far and fast. What logic did life hold? Why this 
turn of the wheel? Why should honour have demanded that 
this fine man, whose great pleasure in life lay in helping others, 
should lay down his life for a man who up till now had spent 
his in idleness and selfish pleasures? Why, because the good 
man loved the idle man’s wife, should it have been incumbent 
on him to save his life? 

Wound in and out of these thoughts was a gladness that 
Tony’s father had not failed his country. For that at least 
she need never feel shame. But mixed up with the dull sort of 


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gladness which the knowledge gave her was her anger against 
Fate. The pity and waste of it, that the man who was worth 
a thousand Larry’s, had given his life for him and had brought 
him back into her own life. 

“You will find more details in my diary,” the sick man said. 
“I must use this false strength for essential things.” He looked 
at her with the eyes of a man who had committed his soul to 
his God. “This is borrowed strength, beloved,” he said wearily. 
“It won’t last. When I am gone, Alex, you will find yourself 
a rich woman . . . not a millionairess — I have spared you 
that,” he tried to smile. “I should like you to promise me that 
you will live at Tregaron, that you will make it your home.” 

“Oh!” Alex said. “But you must live . . . you must not 
die . . . you will recover.” 

He heard her suppressed sobs. “Don’t, dear. Let me ask 
you something else. Will you put all the treasures I have left 
you in one room in your home, and call that room after me, 
give it my name?” 

“My dearest, my dearest,” Alex said — her voice was broken; 
she could not hide her agitation — “you are going to get quite 
well. The nurse told me that it was only strength you re- 
quired. She asked me to come and see you, to give you some of 
my strength. I was not to let you tire yourself.” 

“Beloved, you cannot give me the desire to live — the right 
is not yours to give.” 

Alex’s reason rebelled. Was it not he himself who had 
robbed her of the right to give it? Was it not he himself who 
had brought Larry back again into both their lives? Had he 
not saved him from a death which would have been more 
honourable than all the deeds of his life? She could not speak 
her thoughts; they were her own, caused by the years of em- 
bittered youth. 

“Without that desire to live, surely it is better for a use- 
less soldier to pass on to ‘lands undiscoverable in the unheard-of 
west’? Don’t try to hold me to earth, dearest.” 

Alex was tom with doubts. He wanted to pass on, he was 
half away from her already. Yet it was her duty to urge him 
to live. 

“I think it is because you are so ill and weak that you feel 
like this.” She did not think so, but for lack of other words, 


WITH OTHER EYES 


227 


she felt that that was the correct thing to say. “Get strong, 
Franklin, and you will find that the old life will be very sweet 
again.” She hated her insincerity. His eyes reproached her. 
“Has the war taught you so little?” they seemed to say to 
her. “Is it only in France that there is naked truth?” The 
unimaginable horrors which the waste of war had revealed to 
him showed for one moment in his haunted" eyes. They alarmed 
her. 

“The old life you speak of is gone, Alex. Where is it to be 
found? The world which knew not war is as far away from us 
as the days when Evangeline’s fancy knights imagined them- 
selves brave warriors.” 

“When you are better you will see,” Alex said. She tried 
to speak buoyantly. “You will see what the soul of the war 
has done for England, and what it is going to do when the 
war is over. Most of us see now what you always saw. We 
have all been at school, learning and studying the new religion 
of humanity, discovering a new heaven and the new earth.” 

“I should like to live to see the real meaning of this war, its 
meaning as a part of the great rule, the ordained cause.” 

“Oh, you will! The old men won’t, but you will, Franklin.” 

A slight movement of his head from side to side spoke an 
eloquent denial of her words. The nurse was coming towards 
them. 

“I think you must go now,” she said to Alex. 

At her bidding Alex promptly rose from her seat. She was 
terribly afraid of tiring or exciting Franklin; she was not 
anxious to remain; she felt that it would be wiser to go at 
once. 

“I have one more thing to say, please.” He looked at the 
nurse and then went on: “You will have no trouble, Alex. I 
took all the necessary precautions to see that everything is 
in perfect order. What I have left you will scarcely be missed 
out of all that might have been yours, but it will enable you 
to live luxuriously.” 

Emotion kept Alex silent. In this brief interview, which 
might be their last, she had to be mindful of the fact that 
while there is life there is hope; that any undue excitement 
might destroy that hope, wreck his chance of life. 


228 


WITH OTHER EYES 


For . one moment she knelt down by his side and laid her 
head on his pillow; her lips were close to his ear. 

“Don’t die, dearest,” she said softly, “live for my sake. Don’t 
leave me all alone . . . my world is so empty.” 

“You will take him back,” he said. “He has fought and 
bled for England . . . you must take him back, Alex.” 

For answer, she pressed her lips on his. “You tell me to?” 
she murmured. “You ask me to do this?” 

“Yes,” he said, “because to me you are holier than all holy 
days or things.” 

Alex shivered. Was she to give her word? A death-bed 
promise was binding, haunting. The spirit of the dead demand 
their pound of flesh. 

“He must come back to you and I must go from you. Good- 
bye, beloved.” 

“Where is Lariy?” she said helplessly. 

“Somewhere in hpspital. You will find him?” The words 
were spoken with difficulty; the false vitality was quickly ebb- 
ing away. 

Alex rose from her kneeling position and at the nurse’s 
bidding silently slipped from the ward. The sick man scarcely 
noticed her absence. 


CHAPTER V 


Evangeline was wheeling a barrowful of garden-rubbish 
across one of the wide stretches of old mossy turf in the grounds 
of Lincluden Hospital. She had to take it across a gravel 
path and over another lawn to reach the pile of weeds and 
refuse which was going to be made into a bonfire. To avoid a 
patient’s carriage-chair which was coming along the path, she 
had to cross it at a rather dangerous speed. The chair which 
was coming was one of the newest type, which turn and move 
about with extraordinary ease and rapidity. She tried to hurry 
across the path. The turf edge of the lawn over which she had 
to take the barrow was at least two inches above the level of the 
path, and as the barrow reached the gravel, the handles slipped 
from her grasp and it toppled over. Its contents were spilt in 
a wild disorder right across the path. 

Evangeline cried out “Stop !” 

The soldier in the chair had seen the accident and had pulled 
up in good time. The next moment a blushing and embarrassed 
Rosalind was standing beside him, apologising profusely for her 
clumsiness. After she had been speaking rapidly for a few 
moments, a look of questioning and speculation changed the ex- 
pression of her face. Something was stirring in her memory. 
The soldier was young and fair; even his ill-fitting hospital 
uniform did not disguise his air of good breeding. 

As Evangeline looked at him more interestedly, because of the 
subtle suggestion of resemblance to someone whom she had 
formerly known or seen under unusual circumstances, he blushed 
until his cheeks were almost as scarlet as his neck-tie. 

“We have met before,” he said, “but, of course, you don’t 
recognize me?” 

Evangeline’s straight eyebrows were drawn closer together. 
She had seen so many new faces during the last two years; 
perhaps this good-looking Tommy only resembled some other 
soldier, or she might have seen him before in a casual sort of 
way. He saw her look of uncertainty. 

229 


230 


WITH OTHER EYES 


“Do you remember placing a wreath of forget-me-nots on 
St. David’s tomb?” 

“Oh!” Evangeline cried. “Were you that curate?” 

“I was,” he said, “a very bad curate.” He smiled, and when 
he smiled, youth illuminated his face. 

“You have been fighting? Or were you only chaplain?” 
With the last suggestion her voice fell; she hoped not. 

“I have been fighting,” he said. 

“How splended ! I am so glad ! I wish all curates would do 
the same. But however did you recognize me?” Evangeline’s 
breathless sentences were expressive of the girl he remembered 
so vividly. She had come to life again. 

He blushed foolishly. How could he tell her that once hav- 
ing seen her, no man could forget her ? How could he tell her 
that in Flanders he had over and over again seen the blue of her 
eyes in the skies, and the darkness of her lashes and hair in the 
hurrying clouds? 

“I have a good memory for faces.” His words were conven- 
tional. It was a poor, inexpressive remark to make, while his 
heart was beating in such an absurd manner. This was all he 
had to say now that the girl was standing talking to him, the 
girl who had refined his thoughts and haunted his memory for 
almost four years ! 

“St. David’s seems a hundred centuries ago,” she said. “You 
have awakened a memory of a former incarnation.” 

“In a way it does seem centuries ago. One wonders how there 
ever could have been a world of such inaction and peace and 
. . .” He paused, . . useless living.” 

“Tell me,” she said, “how did you manage to go to the front? 
You had a mother . . .” she hesitated, for her memory was 
suddenly flooded with the whole scene which had been enacted 
between them at St. David’s. 

“Ah ! You remember?” He spoke eagerly, gladly. 

“Yes, I do, almost everything we did and said. I was awfully 
young.” She laughed. “Do you remember the ducks standing 
on their heads ? I do. Do you remember how I said I wished 
humans could do the same, for their attitude expressed their 
satisfaction? And do you remember how I said I never had 
done anything in life which I didn’t want to do, and you said 


WITH OTHER EYES 231 

you were doing things you didn’t want to all the time — at least— 
I knew you meant that from what you didn’t say?” 

“Yes, I remember,” he said. His heart was pounding against 
his sides. “It was a gloriously bright day. Do you remember 
the forget-me-nots?” 

“And how we made the wreath with Tony and we never met 
you the next Sunday after all, when we went to the Welsh 
Service? But you had watered the wreath and it was beautiful.” 

“I planted it when the flowers were faded. It had thrown 
out long roots in the saucer. The seeds of it still sow themselves 
and come up every year — quite a big patch of forget-me-nots 
is dedicated to St. David.” 

“Oh, how nice of you!” Evangeline said, while the colour 
flew to her cheeks. The soldier’s eyes had told her more than 
his words. 

“My sister looks after it,” he said, apologetically. “The war 
has cured her; she is doing hard work in St. David’s.” 

“How splendid!” Evangeline said. “What was the matter 
with her?” 

“She had a breakdown at Cambridge. She had overworked 
herself for years on end. Her education never cost my mother 
a penny ever since she was quite a child. She took scholarship 
after scholarship, and then the breakdown came just before her 
final triumph at Cambridge. It was awfully hard lines. But 
the war has absolutely cured her, given her lots to do which 
hasn’t needed any brain-effort or nerve-strain.” 

They were talking together like old friends who had met after 
a long absence. Evangeline was seated on the shaft of her 
barrow, her slim, brown-gaitered legs crossed with the freedom 
of a boy’s. 

“My mother is doing war-work too. They are both quite inde- 
pendent and as happy as the war will allow any of us to be.” 

Evangeline’s eyes expressed her understanding; he had meant 
that he was no longer burdened by their maintenance. 

“When I was free I resigned my curacy and joined up.” 

Evangeline looked at his legs, which were wrapped up in a 
thick rug. One of his feet appeared to be wounded, for it pro- 
jected beyond the rug and it was swathed in white bandages. 

“Your Blighty,” she said, “what is it?” 

“My right foot.” 


232 


WITH OTHER EYES 


“What is the matter with it?” For the moment Evangeline 
forgot that only limbless cases were taken in Lincluden Hospital. 

“Gone,” he said. “It was amputated a month ago. It’s going 
on all right.” 

“You’ve lost it?” she said. As she spoke, from some hidden 
depth of her being rushed the memory of the high cliffs and wild 
coast beyond the peaceful valley of St. David’s. She remembered 
his half-confession that only by his wild wanderings on those 
rugged cliffs could he find freedom for his imprisoned soul. She 
could see herself, running by his side with the fleet feet of 
youth, back to the old ruins of the Bishop’s Palace. And mixed 
with these visions, suggested by them, came Allan’s tragedy, the 
regret that his cruel wound had not been received on the battle- 
field. Her storm of thoughts and the emotions they aroused kept 
her tongue-tied. What could she say? What does anyone ever 
say which expresses the palest shadow of what they feel for 
youth maimed and blinded and shattered by the war? 

He saw her confusion, her anxiety to offer the sympathy she 
felt. He could not imagine her without one of her two feet; 
he supposed she felt the same about him. He was all anxiety 
to comfort her. 

“A foot,” he said, “is really nothing in these days. In this 
hospital, I feel almost a fraud.” 

“Oh, I know,” she said. “And yet it just spoils everything — 
things can never be the same again. You can’t live the same 
life.” 

“I don’t want to live the same life.” 

“Was the yoke of affection heavier than a wooden foot?” 

“The yoke of blindness was,” he said. 

Evangeline looked at him. His words baffled her. 

“I was blind to everything in life, except my own wild desire 
to live, to be free, to hurl my head at any stone wall that ob- 
structed my path. I was just as much a slave to my own de- 
sires as I thought I was a slave to order and rule and ceremony.” 

“And now?” Evangeline’s voice suggested sadness. Was 
this yet another falcon with clipped wings, as Alex always called 
Evangeline ? 

“And now,” he said, “I know that these things don’t mean real 
freedom. I was a slave to my own limited interests. We can 


WITH OTHER EYES 233 

be greater slaves to ourselves than to anyone else — don’t you 
think so?” 

“The whole world is in bondage,” Evangeline said. “How 
can anyone be free?” 

“You don’t really think that,” he said. “Every man’s free- 
dom lies within himself; no exterior influence can make or un- 
make his freedom. He always builds the walls of his own 
prison.” 

“No German is free,” she said, evasively. She was not fully 
understanding him. 

“We don’t know. German military rule makes us see them 
as slaves. But remember, conscientious objectors are compelled 
to fight side by side with the willing. But even then their soul 
remains their own. No power on earth can destroy the freedom 
of even a German’s soul. If I had to go back to St. David’s 
again, I shouldn’t feel as I did.” 

“The war changes everything and everyone,” Evangeline said; 
her words were regretful. “If peace does ever come, how tame 
and slow and wise everyone will be! No standing on our heads 
like the ducks at St. David’s!” Her lips laughed, while her 
eyes were grave. 

“We shall all be changing together,” he said. “We shall all 
have so many delightful ‘Do you remembers?’ to discuss, of the 
piping days of peace — that will help, don’t you think?” 

“That’s true,” she said laughingly. “I’m old enough and 
wise enough now to love ‘Do you remember?’ ” 

“Do you remember,” he said, “the Welsh Service at St. David’s 
— the music of their voices, the beauty of the language when 
it is sung?” 

“I do,” she said. “And you never turned up! You proved 
faithless. What a musical race the Welsh are! By the way, 
there are often quite good concerts in the hospital — do you 
enjoy them?” 

“We had one last night. You weren’t there? I didn’t see 
you.” 

“No, I was busy writing my weekly letter to my mother. I 
hear there is one man who sings awfully well. One of the 
nurses told me he really has a beautiful tenor. Have you 
heard him?” 


234 WITH OTHER EYES 

“One or two men sing quite well. We have some profes- 
sionals.” 

“Are you musical?” she asked. “Do you appreciate the 
modem music, the new revolutionary music, one might almost 
call it?” 

“I’m awfully fond of music, but the war has changed my 
taste even in that. Before I went into the Army, I adored the 
new Russian music. The more advanced, the better I liked it; 
it was fuel to my hatred of the old order of things, I suppose. 
I had a great friend at Cambridge who, in a measure, educated 
me up to it.” He paused. “I don’t know exactly how it is, but 
the order and method of military training has got hold of me. 
I see the need of absolute authority. Its discipline has become 
a sort of passion with me, and the stronger the feeling has be- 
come, the less I care to hear the strange, disconnected, unorderly, 
revolutionary composition, which once interested and held me. 
Much of it seems to me now as youthful as my own undis- 
ciplined mind of four years ago. I have become a devotee of 
Bach and Beethoven. Can you follow what I mean? I am so 
bad at expressing my ideas, but it is all perfectly clear and 
logical to me in my own mind.” 

“Oh, yes,” Evangeline said, “I know what you mean quite 
well.” 

“Can you understand how and why the change has come 
about?” 

“I think I can,” she said. 

“The absolute order of military life undoubtedly affects one. 
It becomes as amazing and fascinating to a military student as 
the study of the rules which govern the forces of Nature are to a 
scientist — the linking together of every rule until the ones you 
thought most unnecessary and absurd take their place in some 
supreme action.” 

“I do understand what you mean, and yet I don’t quite see 
how it should have so affected a man like yourself. I thought 
you were something like myself in these matters. I hate living 
by rule and convention.” 

“But you yourself,” he said, “before the war you wouldn’t 
have enjoyed going through this daily routine of work.” 

“I don’t enjoy it now,” she said laughingly. “I really only 
enjoy not enjoying it. I enjoy the feeling that I am doing some- 


235 


WITH OTHER EYES 

thing I dislike, something that takes the freedom out of my days, 
so that I may suffer a little, while you are all suffering so much. 
I think I enjoy every ache and pain and feeling of over-tired- 
ness, as much as I hate the monotony of brushing leaves and 
digging borders and weeding. I want to kick the barrow over 
a hundred times a day, just as I spilt it so ignominiously as 
you came along.” 

The ex-curate laughed sympathetically. 

“And if I don’t go about my business now,” she said, HI shall 
catch it! What a long time we have been talking!” 

“Have we?” he said. In his heart he said, “What a little time 
after four years of waiting.” 

“Yes. I must count it as my twenty minutes off at eleven 
o’clock.” 

“When can we meet again?” 

“You will be out and about, and I shall be in the grounds 
somewhere. I won’t throw a barrowful of rubbish across your 
path again, I promise you.” 

“Do anything you choose,” he said, “so long as we can have 
another chat. I have enjoyed it so much.” 

“We will have some more ‘Do you remembers?’” she said. 
“We are getting dreadfully old ! I will think of some for our 
next meeting.” 

He watched the mass of rubbish being thrown back into the 
barrow. Evangeline’s quick movements and slender limbs were 
certainly a treat for weary eyes. He had never seen a girl wear 
khaki coat and breeches as she wore them. Until now he had 
not liked or particularly admired the practical costume. When 
the barrow was re-loaded she smiled a friendly good-bye, and 
the invalid moved his carriage swiftly towards a sunny and 
sheltered corner where he could feed tranquilly on his thoughts. 


CHAPTER VI 


Evangeline and her fellow-gardeners received an invitation 
to the next concert which was given to the soldiers in the limb- 
less hospital. It was to consist of local effort. 

With something of her old care, Evangeline looked over the 
frock she was going to wear. It was rather an event for her to 
get into feminine attire once more. As a rule she was only 
too ready for bed when her day’s work was done; she did not 
trouble to change her khaki uniform for a house-frock. To- 
night, for a reason which lay hidden in her consciousness and 
because she was still young, she was making herself, as she 
expressed it, “look as presentable as possible;” she could not 
•hope to look any better than that in one of her old “dug-outs.” 

A very presentable appearance it was, as she entered the long 
gallery of the great hospital where the concert was to be held. 
Most men thought so, at any rate, and she herself felt that for 
a pre-war gown it was rather astonishing. What she looked 
like, as she passed along the aisle of the hall to reach her seat, 
which had been reserved for her, was a moving cloud dropped 
from a blue April sky. Of course, the ex-curate knew the 
moment she entered the hall; he felt as well as saw her arrival. 
He was to sing that night. She was to hear his voice for the 
first time. 

He had seen her twice since the incident of the spilt barrow 
in the grounds of the hospital. What they had said to each 
other does not matter, for it is not the things which any woman 
says that make a man fall in love with her. What she says 
always seems to him remarkable, and Evangeline never needed 
to say very much; her victims were hers by silent conquest and 
by the language of her eyes. Indeed, they had had little oppor- 
tunity of saying much that mattered, for on both occasions 
Evangeline had been accompanied by one of the other two gar- 
deners, and they had stuck to her with the persistency of the 
unwanted. 


WITH OTHER EYES 


237 


To-night her dark head and pale blue frock were just within 
sight of Hugh Tennant. From his chair he could see her by 
turning his head well round to the left. Later on in the evening, 
after he had sung, he would run his chair closer to where she 
sat, if he came out of the ordeal sufficiently creditably. 

The long hall presented a wonderful sight. Lined up on 
either side of its walls were the patients who were well enough 
to enjoy the performance. They were in long chairs, or reclining 
at full length on low divans, or sitting upright in invalid chairs 
like Hugh’s, which they wheeled about. The most expensive 
chairs were miracles of lightness and responsiveness to touch. 
The hall was full of soldiers; men with no legs or one leg; men 
with no arms, or one arm ; men with one arm and one leg ; men 
with one hand and men with no hands; men with no feet and 
no arms — every conceivable limbless victim of the war was there. 
They only, of course, represented the convalescent inmates of the 
superb hospital. Upstairs, in the silent wards, lay the men 
whose condition did not allow them, even had they wished it, to 
join in the festivity. 

A man with both legs gone, who had once been an agile 
comedian in a London music-hall, opened the programme. He 
gave a musical recitation and variety entertainment, which 
brought down the house with laughter. With pathetic agility, 
he rested his crutches, upon which he had been balancing him- 
self a moment before, against the side of the piano and seated 
himself on the piano-stool. His poor stumps of legs reached no 
further than a little child’s. He was a bom comedian and en- 
tertainer; the loss of his two legs had not robbed him of his 
humour. 

For an encore he gave a sketch which he had written himself 
of life in a hospital- ward, from a Tommy’s point of view. 
Evangeline knew that it was absolutely life-like, and amazingly 
daring. The matron and the nurses would certainly have re- 
sented it if it had been less witty. 

The next item was a violin-solo. The violinist had been a 
member of the London Philharmonic Society orchestra. Evan- 
geline knew that his selection of music would please her friend, 
the ex-curate; it was too classical for the majority. So far she 
had not seen Hugh. 

After the violinist’s performance, which was all that she had 


238 


WITH OTHER EYES 


expected, and certainly gave pleasure and satisfaction to the 
musical members of the audience, an enormous Scotsman gave 
imitations of Harry Lauder. They were such perfect imitations 
that Evangeline was amazed at the cleverness of the performance. 
The man’s voice had most of the charm which won for Harry 
Lauder his sudden popularity; he had also the same broad, 
ingenuous smile and expression. The enthusiasm of the wounded 
men was delightful to watch. Crutches beat the ground; hands 
were clapped by those who had two hands to clap with, while 
laughter echoed through the great hall. Evangeline wondered 
if it had ever, in the days of peace and splendour, held a lighter- 
hearted, a more enthusiastic gathering of people. Yet everyone 
in it, with the exception of the staff and one or two guests who 
had been invited, had lost a limb. There was not a man in the 
cheery audience who would ever be whole-bodied again. 

Tears and laughter struggled for supremacy with Evangeline. 
The men were all so happy that she need not have cried; but 
the pity of it tore at her heart. So much youth battered and 
maimed! She remembered how she had struggled to hide her 
feelings the first time that she had been in the wards. A big 
giant of a fellow had, with extraordinary agility, slipped from 
his crutches to the floor to unfasten his locker. He wished to 
show her a photograph of his family. He had thrown his 
crutches across the bed and was supporting himself with his 
hands against it. The shock it had given her, to see him bal- 
anced on the ground on the trunk of his body, brought tears into 
her eyes. The man saw them ; he had grown accustomed to what 
so horrified her. 

“I’m not so bad as many are,” he said. “And you see, I shall 
get twenty-five shillings a week for life.” 

“Oh,” Evangeline cried, while the tears splashed uncon- 
trollably down her cheeks, “what is twenty-five shillings a week 
compared to your legs?” 

“Have you ever thought what it is,” the man said, “to be a 
working man and the father of a young family, and to know 
that if anything happened to you, if you became invalided for 
life, there was not a soul but the mother of your kids to work 
for them and you?” 

While Evangeline looked at him, for some unknown reason 


WITH OTHER EYES 


239 


the figure and face of Franklin Gibson, standing on the rock 
above Merlin’s Pool at Tregaron, rose clearly before her eyes. 

“I don’t believe I ever did think before the war,” she said. 

‘‘Well,” he went on, “I often used to think that it was a mad 
act to marry and bring little ones into the world with the risk of 
leaving them to the barest poverty — for try as he may, a work- 
ing-man with a young family couldn’t save; it was impossible.” 

“I’m sure it was.” 

“And now,” he said, “I’ve got no legs, that’s true enough, but 
for as long as I live I’ve got twenty-five shillings a week clear. 
That would keep the kids if I couldn’t get work. But I can get 
a good job if I go into the workshop here and learn. I can 
save a bit. Legs isn’t the worst thing to lose — anyone will tell 
you that hands are far worse.” 

Since that day Evangeline had reconstructed her ideas of a 
working man’s views of life. To-night their cheery happiness 
and their enthusiasm gave her an exquisite pain. 

To her surprise, when the next item on the programme was 
due, she saw Hugh Tennant wheel his chair from somewhere 
unseen out into the centre aisle of the gallery. It spun down 
to where the piano stood at the other end of the hall at a great 
pace. His footless leg would not allow of his hanging it, so he 
could not stand on crutches. 

“What is he going to do?” Evangeline wondered. Her heart 
had begun to beat rather foolishly. His performance was a 
personal thing to her; she had to recognize that. The other 
performers had been professionals, all except the double of 
Harry Lauder. How would her friend stand the test of com- 
parison ? 

Until he began her heart went on sledge-hammering in the 
most annoying fashion. It was betraying to her what she would 
not have allowed herself to acknowledge. Hugh had started the 
well-known ballad, “She is far from the Land.” Before he had 
sung the opening lines, she gave a deep soft sigh of relief. He 
was all right. There was no doubt about his voice; there could 
be no doubt about its effect on his audience. The surprising 
beauty of it, its almost unearthly quality, brought a lump to 
her throat. Hugh’s voice had made many less emotional people 
than herself cry; she need not have fought so hard to repress 
the unexpected tears. 


240 


WITH OTHER EYES 


When Evangeline had asked him if he had heard the soldier 
with the beautiful voice sing, she had of course been referring, 
if she had only known it, to himself. How amused he must 
have been! She wondered why he had chosen “She is far from 
the Land.” It was not a tenor song. 

A beautiful pride flooded her listening being, the pride of the 
secret sympathy between herself and the singer. She knew that 
no one in the room was so closely in touch with him as herself. 
Although he might not have seen her, he was anxious for her 
approval, even above his desire to please the soldiers. Evan- 
geline’s eyes never left his face until the song was finished. The 
sudden knowledge that he could sing like that raised him in- 
finitely higher in her estimation. He was an artist, as well as a 
soldier who had been wounded. He possessed something super- 
lative, something which she would for ever admire and envy. 
Possessing a voice like that lifted him right above the common 
ruck of mankind. Even if he had remained only a curate, he 
would have been something great as well. 

The song was finished. The modest cripple who had sung 
it was wheeling himself back to his former place. But not quite; 
he managed to overshoot the mark and pull up within easy 
speaking distance of the girl with blue eyes and the dark hair, 
whom the men he had been sitting next to had admired, and to 
whom he had been singing. 

Evangeline’s congratulations were given with glowing en- 
thusiasm. 

“I never knew that you possessed any voice at all !” she said 
laughingly. “Fancy having a voice like that and being a 
curate at St. David’s! Why on earth didn’t you use it?” 

“I couldn’t afford the training necessary for professional 
singing, or the sums of money which you have to pay after you 
have trained, if you want to get a hearing. And, after all, it 
was owing to St. David’s that I can sing even as I do.” 

“How was that?” 

“Because the organist and choir-master at the cathedral be- 
came a great friend of mine. He helped me all he could ; he was 
quite a good singing-master.” 

“I should say he was!” Evangeline said. “But what ma- 
terial he had to work upon ! A voice like yours would be very 
easily overtrained. It’s perfect as it is.” 


WITH OTHER EYES 


241 


“I am glad you like it,” he said. “A great voice producer, 
when he heard me sing a little time ago, was kind enough to say 
that instinctively I produced my voice properly. He said that 
Nature had been awfully good to me, and advised me to be satis- 
fied with it as it is. I was horribly nervous to-night.” 

“A lark might as well be nervous. How foolish!” 

“I haven’t my music here. I sang that song because it was 
the only one I could find that I knew and the accompanist could 
play. It isn’t a tenor song, of course.” 

“Do you know,” Evangeline said, “the moment you began 
to sing I found myself crying — it was so unexpectedly beautiful. 
It sounded just like a pure voice from heaven. Can you hear 
yourself how it sounds?” 

“Oh, you’re too kind,” he said. 

“No, I’m not. I never flatter. And oh! how I envy you! 
Fancy having an instrument inside your own body which can 
produce music like that! You can sing to yourself on the hills 
and in the valleys and in any kind of old place you choose! 
You can become detached from the world when you feel too 
war- weary.” 

“Oh, no, I can’t,” he said. 

“Why not?” 

“I can’t tell you. I have no voice worth listening to in ugly 
surroundings, or with unsympathetic people listening. I am a 
slave to atmospheric conditions.” 

“Oh,” Evangeline said, “your voice belongs to the Welsh hills. 
You are Welsh, aren’t you? No Englishman I ever heard sings 
with so much temperament.” 

“On my mother’s side I am Welsh — I was bom in Wales — 
but my father was Lancashire.” 

“The best blend for music,” Evangeline said. “Bother it! 
We must stop talking.” She looked at him with glowing eyes. 
“Will you sing again?” 

“I suppose I shall be asked to.” 

Evangeline nodded. “Do please!” she said eagerly. “How 
lovely!” 

When the pianoforte solo was finished, Hugh whispered to 
her, “There is really no music here that I know — absolutely 
nothing except ‘The Messiah/ and that is too serious.” 


242 


WITH OTHER EYES 


“Oh,” Evangeline said, “ ‘Comfort ye my people/ that would 
be glorious. How I’d love to hear you sing it!” 

He shook his head. “You can any day, if you like, but not 
to-night.” 

“Perhaps it would be too much,” she said. “I don’t know 
that the situation would stand it. I know that I should cry like 
anything, but that sort of crying is the most perfect enjoyment 
there is, isn’t it?” 

“I« doubt if I could sing it to these men. They want ‘bucking 
up’ — you know what I mean. Laughter is healthier for them 
than any exquisite pain.” 

“Yes, I know. Poor dears, how I love them all! Don’t they 
make you feel proud of our Empire? You can’t find a depressed 
or clouded face amongst them.” 

“They have all seen hell,” he said. “They know how good it 
is to be in paradise. I know I do.” 

Another item on the programme was starting. It was an old 
English glee sung by a quartette of nurses. Instantly Evangeline 
was transplanted to the Chalice Hostel at Glastonbury. The 
years of war had rolled back; she was standing with Allan 
listening to the same glee, sung in the picturesque room in the 
ex-monastery. The unreality of it all, mingled with its charm 
and spiritual atmosphere, separated her while the glee lasted 
from her immediate surroundings. She could even see the card- 
board crown covered with gilt paper lying on the stage of the 
theatre where the morality plays were rehearsed and acted. She 
could see the great cross which represented unity on the white- 
washed chapel wall. 

When the glee came to an end she found herself again sitting 
in the hospital concert-hall. She was promising Hugh to prac- 
tice some accompaniments for him on Saturday afternoons. It 
would fall in nicely with the visiting hours at the hospital. He 
would then sing to her as much as she liked and he would try 
to learn some new songs for the next concert. The hospital was 
liberally supplied with pianos and very old music. 

It had been an extraordinarily happy evening for Hugh and 
Evangeline. Everything that Evangeline did and said made 
her in his eyes charming and wonderful. He had never, or so 
he assured himself, thought that she was half so womanly or 
enchanting. This was far from the truth, of course, for he had 


WITH OTHER EYES 


243 


pictured her over and over again as a creature possessed of the 
graces and charm of a thousand women rolled into one. She 
was so nice to him — that was the strange thing. He said to 
himself that any girl so outstandingly clever and pretty should 
take the trouble to be so nice to a man like himself proved what 
a really good sort she was. And it had not been only on account 
of his voice; he was glad of that; for she had made herself 
equally delightful to him before she knew that he possessed any 
voice at all. He thanked God for his voice; he hugged it to 
himself in his thoughts as a precious and lucky possession. It 
had never meant anything like what it meant to him now. It 
was the one and only thing he possessed which all other men 
had not. Rich men could give her the things a girl like that 
deserved and ought to have; he could only give her his voice, 
his whole voice, for without her it would behave as it did when 
the world held no beauty. 

Of course he did not pause to think where the charm of Evan- 
geline was leading him to; he did not ask himself what would 
happen when he had to leave the hospital. Darkness reigned 
over the face of the earth where she was not. He did not reason. 
Desire does not reason; it drives and forces — some men to de- 
struction, some men by a happier fate to salvation. The man 
who reasons is the man in whom the forces of Nature have none 
of the qualities which Evangeline sought in her Sir Launcelot. 


CHAPTER VII 


Evangeline had not reasoned with herself either. Sufficient 
for the day was the flirting thereof. Youth had come back to 
her; her personal interest in life, which had been what Hebe 
called flirting and which she imagined had been killed by the 
war, had had a sudden rebirth. Saturday came grudgingly, as 
pleasures do to youth that is born of impatience. Yet Evangeline 
had not been driven by the same force as Hugh. Her feelings 
were still far too undetermined for that. 

For two glorious hours Hugh had sung to her, and then they 
had talked with that enjoyment of being together which is one 
of the most subtle things on earth. Very often there were 
pauses when they found nothing to say to one another. These 
pauses were the most significant and delightful thing in the 
whole affair. During these silences Hugh would think what 
a fool he was, and how he must be boring Evangeline. Evan- 
geline w r as not so modest. She knew that everything about her 
pleased Hugh; she knew also the power of silence, its psycho- 
logical effect. 

Seated at the piano in her khaki uniform, she looked so like 
a youth of eighteen that Hugh could not reconcile himself to the 
fact that he had actually seen her looking as soft as a summer 
cloud in her evening-dress at the concert. 

“What are you smiling at?” Evangeline said. “At my big 
feet?” His eyes had been studying her feet on the pedals. 

“At the contrast your feet present in these long top-boots of 
heavy brown leather and your pale blue slippers of the other 
night.” 

“I felt so ridiculous in mufti,” she said. “I was quite shy. 
These things are really far more sensible, and they won’t go 
out of fashion. But how could you see my feet?” 

“Because I looked for them,” he said. “I always do look 
at a woman’s feet and hands. To me they are as psychological 
as any other feature about her.” 

244 


VITH OTHER EYES 


245 


“Mine look pretty awful in these huge things, anyhow/’ 

“They are awfully nice,” he said. “But I thought that blue 
frock you wore was lovely. You see, we get so much khaki; it 
is a great treat to see a girl dressed as you were dressed the other 
night. I expect you know that; it was awfully nice of you to 
think of it — t6 dress as girls used to be dressed.” 

“But I wasn’t,” Evangeline said. “That blue frock is a 
‘dug-out/ I have no use for gay rags, so I never buy any. I 
did my best, but it was pre-war.” Evangeline knew better than 
he did why she had done her best. 

“Shows all I know,” he said. “I thought it was perfect, the 
most enchanting sort of gown. I couldn’t tell you now what it 
was, or anything about it; I only know that its colour was 
awfully unreal, and you looked more feminine than anything I 
have ever seen in my life, and I believe that that is what appeals 
most to us trench-dwellers. I wasn’t the only one who thought 
so; other people said the same thing.” 

The way he said “other people” amused and pleased Evan- 
geline. It was so evident that he felt that he himself would 
naturally take a prejudiced view of her appearance. A delicious 
excitement filled her. 

“Now for a last song I” she said laughingly. “I think the 
‘other people’s’ eyes must be very war-weary if they said and 
thought all that about my poor antiquated evening dress.” 

They looked for and found another song, and yet another. 
Evangeline knew that it was wise, it kept things from getting out 
of hand. Singing was safer than talking. It had got to that 
point in their intimacy. 

“Do you remembers?” were to be particularly avoided. It 
did not occur to either of them that one summer’s afternoon 
spent in sight-seeing four years ago had served them in good 
stead for “Do you remembers?” for some weeks. 

“Do you remember,” she said, choosing what she thought a 
very safe one, “the pretty American who drove our party over 
to St. David’s in her car?” 

“Yes,” he said. “She lent us the blue-edged saucer for the 
wreath. It is now in my mother’s possession.” 

Their eyes met and laughed. 

“Yes,” she said. “How well you remember l” 


246 


WITH OTHER EYES 


‘‘Why not?” he said. “Such days were not common in my life 
at St. David’s.” 

“I suppose not,” she said. “You thought me a very primitive 
girl from Acadie, I suppose?” 

“I must still keep to myself what I thought,” he said. 

Evangeline turned over the leaves of a song. His words had 
lidded her eyes. 

“I kept what I thought about you all the time I was in 
Flanders and I never mean to part with it. The thought hasn’t 
changed.” 

Evangeline strummed the first bars of the song. Still her eyes 
were screened from view. The big room was empty, save for a 
few invalids reclining on couches or playing cards at the far 
end of it. On the turf outside wild rabbits were eating for- 
bidden fruits. 

Even a golden silence can become embarrassing and over- 
charged. Evangeline glanced at her companion. She had a 
way of looking at people without raising her long lashes. 

“I had a letter from Hebe McArthur this morning. It’s the 
first I’ve received since America has come into the war. She 
is so happy; she feels that her efforts have not been in vain. But 
oh, if only it had been sooner!” 

“What was she doing?” 

“Why, stirring up the American women. She’s a brick! Ever 
since the beginning of the war she has been doing propaganda 
work in America. And my word, it was needed !” 

“How splendid! I remember her quite well — a luxurious 
creature from the Southern States, rather Spanish.” 

“Yes, and as ease-loving as a cat — never did a day’s work in 
her life! Now she is at it from morning until night.” 

Evangeline sighed. “How the war has changed everyone! 
All of that'car-full who invaded St. David’s have become quite 
different creatures.” 

Her remark opened up a whole new channel of thought. He 
knew that she meant that he had changed more than anyone 
else, that the war had affected and must affect his future life. 

“What are you going to do after the war — after you leave 
here?” 

“When I get my wooden foot?” he said laughingly. 


WITH OTHER EYES 


247 


“Yes, if you like to put it that way.” 

“I haven’t quite settled,” he said. 

Evangeline picked out the tune of one of the waltzes which 
were advertised on the back of the piece of music before her. 
Her blue eyes scanned his face openly. 

“You won’t be a curate again, anyhow?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Oh!” Evangeline cried, and her voice was so expressive that 
it needed no words to tell him what she thought. 

“Why not?” he said. 

“But you are free, things are different !” 

For the next few moments everything of Evangeline spoke 
but her voice; her whole being expressed curiosity, surprise, 
annoyance. 

“I hope I shouldn’t be the same sort of curate,” he said. 

“But why on earth be one at all?” she said. 

He looked at her with laughing eyes. Her words were so 
reminiscent of the girl who had placed the forget-me-not wreath 
on St. David’s tomb, of the way in which she had said, “And 
so you are a curate?” 

“I might be one,” he said, “because I think the Church at this 
critical time needs men who understand some of the things which 
being a Tommy has taught me. I have learnt what I failed to 
see before, the growing need of a true religious revival in 
England.” 

“But can the Church of England ever give that revival?” 

“I believe it can, if we can get the right force and enthusiasm 
into the Church. I was the wrong force ! I was what is doing 
the Church so much harm. To me it was a profession; I was 
a machine. I felt as you do about it.” 

“And now?” Something was tearing at Evangeline’s heart; 
something heavy was descending on her high spirits. This 
artist, with a voice like an angel, was a curate at heart after all ! 

“And now,” he said, “I feel that the highest and finest life 
I could lead would be one like the late Father Stanton, the life 
of a City priest, working for the boys and youths of London.” 

“Oh!” Evangeline said. “And you so loved the wild country 
and freedom — you know you did!” 

“Perhaps that’s why I want to work amongst the East End 
poor, because they are the victims of their environment.” 


248 


WITH OTHER EYES 


“I see. Come and sing to me.” Evangeline struck a chord 
on the piano with both hands. “That is enough for one day,” 
it seemed to say. “Let us forget. . . 

“Sing to me again,” she said sadly. “Sing ‘Come out and 
greet the mom’ — you sing it best of all, I think.” 

“You are saying to yourself, ‘He is converted. He is talking 
cheap cant/ ” 

“I don’t understand. I don’t pretend to.” 

Their eyes both scanned the distant landscape. 

“I was afraid you wouldn’t,” he said. 

“Is that why you didn’t tell me, why you never mentioned 
your plans?” 

“I suppose so.” 

“I don’t despise you now. Don’t look at me as though I 
did.” 

“You did before?” 

“Not often. I felt convinced that you were, as so many 
other men are, in the Church because of circumstances which 
were too strong to overcome. But these circumstances are re- 
moved; you told me so.” Her eyes challenged his. 

“I know,” he said, “but I am changed. I want to be now 
what I hated being before.” 

“Oh, sing,”, she cried, “and let us forget it. I can’t argue.” 

He sang the song through to the end, in a gay, reckless way. 
The music suited his voice and the words appealed to his sym- 
pathy with Nature. The pagan element in his temperament 
found an outlet in the abandonment to the worship of the 
morning. 

When he had finished, Evangeline lifted her hands from 
the piano impulsively and turned her face to his eagerly. 

“And you want to be a curate?” 

“The war does funny things, doesn’t it?” he said. “It works 
in a mysterious way.” 

“Heavens!” she cried. “When will it stop? What end is 
there to it? Where can one get away from it and its influence?” 

She rose from the piano. Boy-like and straight, she «tood 
before him, rebelling at all which in her subconscious sl. she 
admired and encouraged. Hugh felt that he had thrust him- 
self back again into a class and sect of beings who to her were 
impossible. 


WITH OTHER EYES 


249 


“If I had a voice like yours,” she said, “I should feel that 
it was my mission, that it had been given to me for the pleasure 
of mankind. I should feel that singing to people, to make them 
forget all that it was agony to remember, was ‘my bit’ in this 
world. If you went on preaching for a year without stopping, 
you couldn’t teach the people a hundredth part of what you 
do when you are singing. Oh, do be sensible, for heaven’s sake ! 
Go and sing ‘Comfort ye my people’ just as you sang it to me 
this afternoon to everyone who is war-weary and heavy-laden! 
Don’t go and put on a black coat and talk ‘pi’ and urge men 
who understand nothing about it to go to Communion, as if 
going to Communion was going to save the blackest sinner’s 
soul. I used to hear that talk about Communion, Communion, 
everlastingly in the wards — the English Church always does it. 
The poor suffering men want something nearer and closer to God 
than that.” 

There was a sudden stillness, an unhappy one. 

“Now I’ve shocked you!” she said. “You’ve done with me.” 

“No, you haven’t. I know what you mean. We have too 
much of it. I have seen it with my own eyes. It is so often 
form, form, form, church, church, church. They are in the 
Church and of the Church, but it would be so well to remember 
that churches were built for God.” 

“And you want to go back into it? You want to worship 
God through the Church? You want to rake men into the 
Church ?” 

“Yes. With all its faults, it is the greatest and highest 
civilizing force we know. I have learnt that.” 

“Have you ? Militarism has taught you to admire the Church 
militant?” 

“Have you ever,” he said, “been in a bad air-raid in East 
London? Have you ever seen the Church at work amongst 
the victims? Have you seen how this war is throwing men 
back upon something higher than themselves? The Church 
isn’t perfect or ideal, but it can give them that something which 
they .are seeking for if it seizes its opportunity. There is a 
rena isance of spiritual life to-day.” 

“But it will grow without the Church. It is outside the 
Church. The Church cripples it — by forms and orthodoxy and 
mediaeval demands on man’s intelligence.” 


250 


WITH OTHER EYES 


“The war can even make you appreciate rule and ritual,” he 
said, “even what seems like empty form. Nothing appealed 
to me so much as mass in the trenches. And I have a photo- 
graph which I once took of a Chinese joss-house, or whatever 
they like to call it, which a labour-battalion of Chinese erected 
on a devastated piece of war-tortured land. Three Chinamen 
in khaki are kneeling reverently in front of the funny little white 
building, with its upturned comers — a strange little bit of 
China in Flanders. Their look of aloof devotion is another 
proof to me of the necessity for giving the masses a religion 
with a concrete form.” 

“But there you are — those men were worshipping their god 
with just the same satisfaction.” 

“Whatsoever a man truly worships, it is the same God.” His 
face looked troubled. “But please don’t,” he said. “I have 
fought the fight; I have argued it all out so often. It is only 
the forms of religions which differ. Those Chinamen were 
worshipping the same Power that we worship. They were 
doing it in the way they understand, the way they were taught. 
The English Church offers the form which Englishmen under- 
stand and are accustomed to. The unintellectual world is not 
ready for a religion which has no outward form.” 

“Good-bye.” Evangeline held out her hand. 

“Good-bye,” he said. “I know the things you are thinking; 
you think I am going to slip back again into a cramped, narrow 
life, that the war has made me a dull, goody-goody sort of young 
man — worse, if anything, than the rotter of a curate you met 
four years ago.” 

“Oh, no, I don’t!” Her hand fell from his. “I really don’t. 
I only thought I knew you, and I don’t.” 

She turned abruptly away, like a child who had lost her 
playmate, a playmate who had come to her in her weary life 
of toil. 

“I think I know you,” he said. “I knew that I was risk- 
ing a great deal in telling you this, and yet I feel certain that 
you will come to agree with me in the end, if you saw more of 
the life in which I want to mix myself up. Besides, you cer- 
tainly admire honesty.” 

She swung round on him, a beautiful bewilderment-driven 
girl. “I do,” she said. “Forgive me if I have been rude and 


WITH OTHER EYES 


251 


unsympathetic. The war has left me a little bit behind, I 
suppose. Oh!” she cried suddenly, as she stretched out her 
arms in abandonment, “do you never pray and yearn for it to 
be all over, just to satisfy only your personal longings and 
wants ? Does self never obliterate all else with you ? Do you never 
hunger for the days of peace and plenty, just from purely 
personal tiredness of ugliness and of doing without, of weari- 
ness and sadness? I get fits like that, when I don’t care about 
anything except being an individual again. I want to see ease 
and plenty and riches flowing over the land as they used, I 
want the old arrogant expression of luxury, of abandonment to 
pleasure! I want to feel as you felt when you forgot the war 
and sang ‘Come out and greet the mom!’ It’s for myself that 
I want it all. I can’t help it ! It comes over me, and I want 
to wallow in ease and beauty and idleness and useless ex- 
travagance!” She paused. “That’s the real me very often, far 
oftener than you think. And then comes the reaction, and I 
want to wound myself, to feel what you have felt, and all the 
others. I want to lie out in the open and go without food and 
water for forty-eight hours, as our men have done! What can 
you make of such a fool, such an unreliable fool? I drove a 
man into fighting, goaded him into the tragedy which has made 
him a hideous creature for life! I, who often feel as if I only 
wanted the war to stop so that I myself could enjoy luxury and 
pleasure again. What can you make of such a fool?” 

“Oh, Evangeline!” Hugh’s eyes embraced her. 

“Don’t!” she cried. “I’m all wrong! The soul of the war 
hasn’t touched me, it has passed me by. I scorn others if they 
don’t give their life for the cause, and remain utterly selfish 
myself.” 

“Who is the man who has become disfigured?” Hugh felt 
that he must know. The words had poured from the girl’s 
suffering heart. She had made a confession in this moment 
of emotional fervour. As she had told him so much, she must 
tell him more. 

“My mother’s step-son.” 

“What was he before the war?” 

“A rising specialist. He didn’t join up.” 

“But he went into the Army Medical?” 

“No, I wanted him to fight, to do the real thing.” 


252 


WITH OTHER EYES 


“Because . . .?” He urged her to finish her sentence. 

“Because,” Evangeline said, “I thought I loved him. I had 
loved him, and the man I would marry must have fought for 
England.” 

Hugh asked no more questions. A man is less articulate 
than a woman in his moments of emotion. 

“A fine sort of person,” she said bitterly, “to send a man 
into the trenches! A person who can feel as I often feel, just 
a monument of unsatisfied, selfish desires!” 

“What is he doing now . . . your friend?” 

“Recovering. He must end his days dragging them out in 
his father’s house, helping him in his country practice, where 
people have known him all his life; they will be kind enough 
to reconcile themselves to his disfigurement. He will be fit for 
nothing else.” 

“Have you seen him since he was disfigured?” 

“I am going to see him soon, a little later on. Good-bye,” 
she said. “My time is up.” 

“Good-bye,” he said abstractedly. His mind was so full of 
the food she had given it to feed upon that he spoke mechan- 
ically. Her absence would be a relief. He wanted her to go 
quickly. He must be alone. 


CHAPTER VIII 


One month later Alex received the following telegram from 
Evangeline: “Will be with you at 6.30.” She was now wait- 
ing for her with curiosity and impatience. It was only five 
minutes to the half-hour. In another two minutes she heard 
the toot-toot of a taxi-cab stopping at her front door. Three 
minutes later Evangeline was in the room beside her. 

“Are you wondering why I have come?” 

“I never wonder at anything now.” 

“The war brings strange visitors.” 

“It gives and it takes away.” Evangeline looked at her 
searchingly. She wondered if she knew. “It certainly takes 
away. Almost every one of my boarders has lost someone near 
or dear to them.” 

“Alex,” Evangeline laid her hand on her friend’s arm, 
“have you any idea why I want to see you ?” 

“Not the faintest. What is it? Tell me.” 

“Your husband is in a hospital, near Glasgow.” 

“My husband?” 

“Yes, your husband. I always knew he was alive,” Evan- 
geline’s abruptness was not cruel; it was suggestive of nothing 
but intense sympathy. 

“You always knew? Who told you?” 

“Tony, I think, in his babyish way. I knew that day at St. 
David’s. It came to me then, the certainty, but I really knew 
from the very first.” 

“What is the matter with him?” 

“He has lost his right arm from the shoulder, clean off.” 

“His right arm!” Alex repeated the words mechanically, 
while her inner self said, “He can never shoot big game again. 
What is the use of his life?” So Franklin was right. She had 
found him; he would come back to her with only one arm, 
more useless than ever. ‘I knew he was in the war,” she said. 
“Franklin told me. I’m not cruel; I’m only stunned.” 

253 


254 


WITH OTHER EYES 


“Does he know him — Franklin Gibson ?” 

“He saved Larry’s life.” 

“Oh, Alex! how extraordinary! How is he — Franklin?” 

“Pretty much the same — the doctor thinks a little better.” 

“Is he considered out of danger yet?” 

“I suppose so, for all septic trouble is over, but he makes 
no real headway. He doesn’t try; he doesn’t want to live.” 

“And he saved Major Hemingway’s life? Your husband 
doesn’t know that, I’m sure he doesn’t.” 

“Franklin means nothing to Larry. I don’t suppose he ever 
heard who the Tommy was who went to find bearers for him 
and got wounded on the way.” 

“Did Franklin know whose life he was saving?” 

“He volunteered to take the risk because he knew.” 

There was one of the dramatic silences which such a situa- 
tion creates. Evangeline could not ask Alex if she was glad 
or sorry that her husband was alive and safe. Alex was hedged 
about with her old aloof air of unbreakable reserve. 

“How did you come across Larry?” she said absently. 

“Very oddly. I have been seeing a good deal of a soldier 
called Hugh Tennant — oh, you may remember him!” Evan- 
geline flushed as she spoke. “Do you recollect a curate at St. 
David’s who showed us all over the cathedral and the ruins?” 

“Yes.” Alex’s troubled mind was travelling back to days 
which seemed extraordinarily far away. “Yes, I remember. 
You flirted with him, Hebe said.” 

“Well, I amused myself with him,” Evangeline said, “while 
you went to sleep and Franklin held his soul in patience until 
you waked.” 

“Yes, a very good-looking boy, if I remember rightly.” 

“Well, he has lost his right foot — he is a patient in our 
hospital. He joined up as a Tommy; he refused a commission. 
He met your husband in France, and your husband is now in 
a hospital near ours. 

“One day someone motored him over to see Mr. Tennant. 
I was in the grounds working when he arrived and was in- 
troduced to him. Mr. Tennant and I began talking about our 
picnic to St. David’s and mentioned your name— -it’s extraor- 
dinary, the way he remembers all our names and everything 
about that picnic.” 


255 


WITH OTHER EYES 

“Is it?” Alex said. Her eyes smiled. 

Her question made Evangeline blush; her whole explana- 
tion had been flurried and breathless. She went on in the 
same strain. 

“When I mentioned Tony, he looked surprised and inter- 
ested, but he never said anything at the time. Afterwards I 
believe he asked Mr. Tennant if he knew where you came from 
and why you were at St. David’s. When Mr. Tennant said 
that you were visiting at Tregaron Manor, he became quite 
silent and scarcely spoke to him again — something was obviously 
usurping his thoughts.” 

Alex did not speak; she merely waited for Evangeline to go 
on with her story. 

“A few days later I met Major Hemingway when I went 
over to his hospital to see a friend, a girl who is a V.A.D. 
there. He began speaking about you again; he asked me if I 
could tell him whether you had been in Canada. It never 
entered my head for one moment what he was going to tell me. 
I told him all I knew for certain about you, and that you had 
been in Canada. Then I said laughingly to him, Tf you are 
thinking of claiming connection with her, I should, if I were 
you, for they are both charming — mother and son.’ ” 

Alex shook her head. “You dear, foolish thing.” 

“I had told him some stories about Tony. He looked aw- 
fully grave, I remember now. I believe he was nearly crying. 
When I said that both of you were charming, what do you 
think he calmly said?” — 

Alex said, “I don’t know.” 

“ ‘No-one knows that better than I do.’ I looked at him. 
‘You?’ I said. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Tony is my son. That charm- 
ing woman is my wife.’ ” 

“Did he say that?” 

“Yes, he did.” Evangeline bent forward. “And, oh, Alex, 
he is still in love with you, you are still his ideal. Whatever 
happened, that’s absolutely true.” 

“Larry has no ideals. You don’t know him.” 

“Certainly, I never do know men,” Evangeline said, “and I 
never shall.” 

“What’s the matter now?” Alex looked at her. “Why so 
humble?” 


256 


WITH OTHER EYES 


“Oh, I don’t know. I’m in need of a rest. I’m going on to 
Glastonbury from here. I just had to come and tell you what 
I thought you ought to know — that Major Hemingway is alive 
and that he has fought splendidly.” 

“Why are you going to Glastonbury?” Alex ignored the 
reference to Larry. 

“For a rest and to see mother. It’s ages since I was there.” 

“Is that all? Is there no other reason?” 

“Why do you ask?” 

“Because you are holding something back, you are going for 
some reason apart from what you have given.” 

“I’m going to marry Allan if he wants to marry me. I’m 
going to see if he does?” 

“Marry Allan Fairclough? My dear girl, you can’t! Have 
you seen him?” 

“No, not yet.” 

“But, Evangeline, you can’t do it! You musn’t!” 

“Yes, I can. It’s my fault that he is what he is. To marry 
him is my bit. I can make myself do it.” 

“But why not wait? This is a mad, hasty action, one of 
your sudden swoops, you wild falcon. You must be stopped. 
Believe me, you can’t do it.” 

“Alex, I believe I’m nearly in love with that curate who was 
at St. David’s. This will help him as well as Allan.” 

“Oh, my dear, why are you going to do this mad thing? 
Allan is hideously disfigured. I saw your mother when she 
was up in town; she told me so. You, of all people — you 
Hedonist, as poor Franklin used to call you!” 

“I don’t know what I am, and I don’t care,” Evangeline 
said. “I used to love Allan, or I thought I did. Love’s a poor 
thing if it can’t stand facial disfigurements and bodily injuries. 
I myself was the cause of his ruined life.” 

“But you weren’t. You exaggerate the whole thing.” 

“Yes, I was. If I’d left things alone? he would have had 
to go into the Army Medical; I goaded him into actually fight- 
ing. He never would have done that if it hadn’t been to please 
me. He said it was to please me.” 

“You won’t really make him any happier by marrying him. 
You can’t do it. You will just ruin two lives completely. You 


WITH OTHER EYES 257 

are too ignorant of what marriage means — the physical side of 
it. You couldn’t tolerate it.” 

“Allan is incurably vain. I can make him believe that I 
still love him. He was only too well aware of how romantically 
I loved him long ago, when he put his career before all else. He 
may be worth a far better love as he is. I must offer it to him.” 

“The war does work wonders,” Alex said. “He may be far 
worthier of your love than he was. But the physical side of love 
is so unchanging.” Had the war changed Larry? she won- 
dered. Had it really changed Allan? Or were both she and 
Evangeline going to be saddled for life with men whom they 
no longer loved or respected, because they had given themselves 
to their country ? Evangeline read her thoughts. 

“Oh, the war!” she said. “There is no end or beginning 
to what it does. Tell me, Alex — was I right to tell you about 
your husband? He never asked me to.” 

“Yes, quite right, of course. I knew it had to come. 
Franklin told me he was in hospital somewhere; it was merely 
a matter of time.” 

“What shall you do? I know nothing about your story, ex- 
cept what he says that he is totally unworthy of you, that you 
did wisely to leave him.” 

“I shall go and see him — take him back when he is well 
enough.” 

“Oh, he doesn’t expect that. He says that he will never 
bother you.” 

“Franklin made me promise that I would, so I will.” 

“Franklin?” 

“Yes.” 

“How like him! And you are really going to do it?” 

“Yes, I have made up my mind to.” 

“But why? He will get a pension; he can live on it. He’s 
quaintly frank about his worthlessness as a husband. He 
really would let you alone, I feel he would. We have had some 
long talks together.” 

“He is Tony’s father; he has fought for England, while 
Tony and I have been safe at home.” 

“Oh, but, Alex!” Evangeline gave a little gasp. “There is 
Franklin . . . you care ... I know you do. And he 

has fought for England too!” 


258 


WITH OTHER EYES 


“Yes, I do care, but not in the way you think — not in the 
way that will break my heart. It was broken long ago. I care 
for all the rest and peace and comfort his presence gives me; 
I care for the niceness of being loved; I care for all that be- 
longs to his love for me. It’s his love for me that I love. I can 
never love again. Everything of that sort that was worth hav- 
ing, apart from what is purely gratitude, I gave to Larry. If 
Larry had died in the war I should have married Franklin. 
I want to marry him. I can imagine nothing nicer on this earth 
now than being his wife. That is the woman I have become. 
But I can live without him. It is not the love which drives and 
kills.” 

“Is he going to live without you?” 

“I’m afraid not.” 

“Isn’t life rotten?” Evangeline said. “This war has given 
you back Larry and taken Franklin.” She sighed. “It has 
killed my old love for Allan, while it forces me to marry him.” 

“Your case is different, Evangeline. It is a quixotic thing 
to do.” 

“Not any more than Franklin’s sacrifice.” 

“Why don’t you marry the curate? He is in love with you. 
He gave himself to the war.” 

“The war has changed him too.” 

“How? In what way?” 

“He hated being a curate before; now he wants to be one. 
He refused a commission because he thought he could do better 
work amongst men as a Tommy.” 

Alex laughed. “You absurd girl!” 

“You needn’t laugh. He wants to be the kind of curate 
that doesn’t marry — it’s all or nothing with him.” 

“Has he told you so?” 

“He say’s he’s going to be the sort of curate Father Stan- 
ton was; he will lead a life devoted to the boys in the City. 
I know that meant that he will never marry.” 

Alex laughed again. “Perhaps it did, but wait and see. 
Love is a wonderful force.” 

“But I shouldn’t like to change his convictions. Besides, I 
couldn’t marry a curate.” 

“You speak as if they were some abnormal species of hu- 
manity.” 


WITH OTHER EYES 


259 


“So they are!” Evangeline said. “All curates and vicars and 
bishops are. I’ve always pitied every woman I knew who 
married any one of them.” 

“You wild thing! Hasn’t the war clipped your wings short 
enough yet?” 

“I’m going to Glastonbury.” 

“Is that where they are to be clipped?” 

“Oh, please,” Evangeline said, rising to her feet as she 
spoke, “forget I’ve spoken like this. If you hear from me that 
I am going to marry Allan, it is because I love him. It is the 
end of a very long and beautiful romance. He was my Sir 
Launcelot.” 

“You have gone back to the past tense.” 

“I want to send off some telegrams — will the office be closed? 
We have oceans to talk about, but I must get them off at 
once.” 

“You have time still. I’m sorry I can’t offer to send some- 
one out with them.” 

“How are you?” Evangeline said. “How’s your staff? 
Have they all gone to munitions?” 

“Wonderful! My boarders are such bricks— do their own 
rooms, help in every way they can.” 

Evangeline disappeared. She was to see Alex again at dinner- 
time. A good deal more had been said between them in a 
broken sort of way, which showed how closely Evangeline had 
kept in touch with Alex during the last four years. They had 
become intimate and devoted friends. Intimate in spite of 
the fact that Alex had never told Evangeline that her husband 
was alive. That was the one fact about her life which Alex 
thought she did not know. Nor did Evangeline know it for 
certain, but she had so strong a conviction that it was so that 
she accepted the fact as conclusive. She imagined that Larry 
had left Alex for some other woman. The subject was a sealed 
book. 

When Alex was left alone, she sat down to think things out. 
How lovely the wild Evangeline still was! Must she let her 
ruin her life? Could she do nothing to prevent her carrying 
out this quixotic deed, which would lead to the cruellest form 
of unhappiness both for herself and for Allan. But what could 


260 


WITH OTHER EYES 


she do? What argument could she use to persuade her that 
she was doing wrong instead of right ? 

Evangeline did not usurp her entire thoughts. There was 
Larry to consider. What step should she take first in the mat- 
ter? Should she write to him, or should she go and see him? 
How was she to explain to Tony that his father was alive and 
coming back to them? How was Larry to take up his life in 
her boarding-house? She smiled, and genuine humour twinkled 
in her eyes. What astonishment it would cause her unsuspect- 
ing boarders ! 

These private troubles of Alex’s were very often rudely 
broken in upon by some demand on her attention for purely 
mundane affairs. They were interrupted at this moment by 
one of the housemaids who said that she had come with a mes- 
sage from the cook. 

“What is it?” Alex asked. 

“She has had a wire from her young man, who has arrived 
in Liverpool, on leave, and she wants to go to Liverpool by 
the nine forty-five train from Euston.” 

Alex had engaged the woman with the understanding that 
if her young man got the leave which he was expecting in a 
few weeks’ time, she should be allowed to go to his people in 
Liverpool and spend the days of his leave there with him. 
Nothing was to stand in the way, or she would not take the 
place. 

“Well, Mary,” Alex said, “we must do the best we can. It 
was a promise — I must keep it.” 

“Yes, ma’am. And just as dinner has to be cooked too!” 

“It is the war,” Alex said. “You would want to go to your 
young man, wouldn’t you, Mary?” 

“I think cook’s going to get married, ma’am. She's been 
getting such a lot of new things — boots and stays and all.” 

“Oh, but she’ll come back?” There was anxiety in Alex’s 
voice. 

“Oh, yes, she’ll come back when he’s gone.” 

“Then tell her I’ll come and cook the dinner,” Alex said. 
“To-morrow I’ll try to get a temporary cook. This won’t be 
the first time, Mary.” 

“You are a wonder, ma’am.” 

“Well, tell Rachel she can go at once.” 


WITH OTHER EYES 


261 


“She’s gone, ma’am, long ago.” 

“Oh,” Alex said, “she has gone, has she? Well, it was a 
bargain. It is the war, and all’s fair in love and war. I’m 
coming, Mary. I’ll be in the kitchen in five minutes.” 

Before she went into the kitchen, Alex lifted up the silver 
picture-frame which held Tony’s portrait. She pressed the 
smiling face to her cheeks. 

“My precious,” she said, “the war can’t take you, whoever 
else it takes ! It can’t touch you.” As she laid the frame down 
on the table, she said, “How am I to tell him? What questions 
he will ask l” A smile hovered round her lips. “Bless his little 
heart! He will be so pleased to have a wounded soldier for 
his father that nothing I tell him will matter much. Larry 
will be a hero in his son’s eyes, at any rate!” 


CHAPTER IX 


Evangeline had spent three days in Glastonbury. She had 
seen Allan, but not without his mask. On the afternoon of the 
third day, a late spring day, she was seated on the green turf 
of Wearyall Hill, not far from the spot where Allan first met 
her, where a stone marks the place where Cromwell's soldiers 
hacked down the winter-flowering thorn. Centuries rather than 
years seemed to have passed since Allan had told her the legend 
of the crataegus precox. Her world had been reborn since she 
had listened to Allan’s scientific explanation of its miraculous 
blooming. 

Evangeline’s flying feet had carried her as far from the 
town as time would allow. She was going to attend a lecture 
on Serbia, at which her stepfather had promised to speak and 
introduce the lady-doctor who was to deliver the lecture. For 
a little time she must be quite alone, must get away from 
everyone and everything. She wanted Nature only, its clear 
skies and its clouds; she wanted detachment from material 
things. She wanted Nature to hold her and in her close em- 
brace save her from all human things, from the desire of hope- 
less eyes, of sealed lips. 

She offered herself to Nature; she threw herself on its ever- 
lasting mercy. Nature was to be her strong arm, the outstretched 
hand. 

Evangeline had no prayer for what she needed. She could 
only immerse herself in desire and cry for help and strength, 
a strength which could only come from self-extinction. 

Something outside herself and beyond any definite conscious- 
ness of herself did absorb her and soothe her. Nature, to 
whom her blind cry had been uttered, held her closer than a 
lover and administered to her what her seeking heart and 
inarticulate soul implored. We can hand over our material 
body to sensations wrought by our spiritual over-man. For 
a few minutes Evangeline lay in strong arms and felt the 

262 


WITH OTHER EYES 


263 


glorious rest of material extinction. Some force stronger than 
herself had taken her to itself, taken her as though she was a 
little child who had lost its way and was found. 

It had not come easily to her, this extinction of self, this 
evening-calm. She had sat on Wearyall Hill for half-an-hour, 
battling with the powers that were against it. During that 
time she had passed through a succession of resolutions and 
doubts. Then she had discovered quite suddenly, and with 
amazing certainty, that she could not carry out the deed which 
she proposed to do or live the life which would be hers without 
the help of some power outside herself. As herself, nothing 
more than her material self, she was not strong enough; 
strengthened and supported by some greater power than she 
had ever felt the urgent need of before, she could and would do 
it. Her own weakness during the last two days had proved 
to her with convincing clearness that she had got to find that 
influence, that power. 

Hugh had found it; it had become an integral part of him. 
Had her eyes been opened to her need of it in this spot so 
sacred to Christianity? 

She had realized this very dimly and subconsciously while her 
eyes rested on the quiet town nestling under the square tower 
of St. John’s Church. The answer to her demand for dominance 
of spirit over matter was so generous that for the time being 
Evangeline was lifted high above the consciousness of all that 
had been troubling her. Like a boat at anchor upon a quiet 
sea, she was lapped by an ether of spiritual sensuousness. 

So high and above all things was Evangeline, so aloof from 
Wearyall Hill and from the town which lay at her feet, in whose 
remote streets now limped the blue figures of convalescent 
soldiers — tokens to the peaceful inhabitants, of the world’s dis- 
peace, of the distant massacre of youth and manhood — that she 
almost cried out when the doctor’s voice said cheerfully: 

“Hallo! You here?” 

“No,” Evangeline said, with a dazed look. “I mean, yes — 
I wasn’t here a minute ago — you brought me back.” 

Allan was with the doctor. He was wearing the flesh-coloured 
half-mask which his father had ingeniously designed and made 
for him. It hid his disfigurement completely. 


264 


WITH OTHER EYES 


“Where were you?” Allan asked. “Were you watching a 
mediaeval tourney?” 

“Oh, no. I’ve quite done with the Middle Ages — they’re 
scrapped.” She spoke with exquisite gentleness. “This war 
has made all that sort of thing, which once seemed so brave 
and gallant, mere child’s play, absolute nonsense.” She laughed. 
“The real greatness and bravery of heroes will have to be re- 
written.” 

“You’re quite right,” the doctor said. “I can scarcely read 
with any patience, or value the opinions of any person who gave 
expression to his thoughts before the war. Men I used to 
think a lot of . . . their ideas don’t seem to me to matter 

now. They didn’t know. Only men of this day know.” 

“I feel that, except with people far away back,” Evangeline 
said. “The modems have retreated; the ancients have come 
forward — Greek writers — you know what I mean?” 

“That’s true— the classics still- bear reading. They never 
die. And the Biblical prophets — they are strangely up-to-date.” 

“They have had a tremendous re-birth — don’t you think so?” 
She spoke to Allan. “I mean the classics — if the wars de- 
scribed in them weren’t anything compared to this war, those 
old writers said things about them which are worthy of the 
greatness and calamity of this war.” 

“I don’t know. I have read so little lately.” 

“Of course, I know.” Evangeline felt foolish; she should 
have remembered. “Do sit down,” she said. “It’s so lovely 
here.” 

“I don’t think I have time to stop,” the doctor said. “I 
just wanted to have a turn with Allan. I must think over what 
I am going to say to-night.” * 

“Leave Allan here,” Evangeline said. “I’ll take care of 
him and bring him safe home.” 

“I’m as fit as a fiddle. I don’t need taking care of.” 

“That plan will no doubt suit you all right, Allan,” his 
father said. “It’s delightful up here this afternoon.” 

Allan said that he would be only too pleased to stay, but 
if Evangeline had come out for a walk alone, she probably 
wanted to be alone. Evangeline gathered that Allan thought 
that she might have asked him if he cared to go with her. 


WITH OTHER EYES 265 

Nowadays he persistently saw things from an unhappy point of 
view. 

“No, I don’t want to be alone,” she said, with clever cheer- 
fulness. Nor did she. Her mind was made up; she was in 
a mood bom of her new awakenedness. 

After a few more words the doctor left them. When they 
were alone, Evangeline changed her seat. A curious exaltation 
filled her. Had she suddenly become possessed of a new and 
higher self, a self which had been waiting for expression? 

Allan almost rose to his feet. He knew why she had changed 
her place. Misery deluged his senses. 

“Now don’t, Allan. Sit down.” She laid a caressing hand 
on his knee. “I only find it easier to talk to you when I can 
see the expression of your face, when I can read your answer in 
your eye.” 

“Why don’t you say what is true?” he said. “Say that you 
can’t bear looking at the other side?” 

“Because it isn’t true; your mask isn’t ugly; it isn’t unbear- 
able. Won’t you try to forget it?” 

“But you know what it covers. That is always in your 
thoughts. You just tolerate me out of pity.” 

“Oh, Allan!” Evangeline’s words were a cry. 

“It’s true.” 

“It isn’t! You know it isn’t! I’m awfully fond of you.” 

“Not in the old way. You couldn’t be fond of a man with 
half a face and only one hand.” He laughed hideously. 

“The half that’s left is all right, and if I’m not fond of you 
in the old way, it’s because I’m not the old Evangeline. How 
could I be the same? You wouldn’t want me to be the same 
romantic girl from Acadie, whose head was full of unreal men 
and things that don’t matter. I’m quite English now, even in 
my voice.” 

“To me she wasn’t silly. I wouldn’t have her changed.” 

Evangeline laughed. “But you didn’t want her, and I don’t 
blame you.” 

“I did want her, but I sold my happiness for a mess of 
pottage.” He lapsed into silence. 

“We were flirting and silly, Allan. You were far too young 
to think of marriage. ... To me you seemed awfully 
wise and ever so much older than myself.” 


266 


WITH OTHER EYES 


“I have always done the wrong thing,” he said gloomily. 
“If I had joined up sooner, I mightn’t have had this.” 

“You would probably have been killed. There are only a 
few of the 1914 men left, poor darlings.” 

“I’d have been a jolly sight better dead!” he said. “Why 
on earth did they make me live? How could they think I’d 
like to live?” 

“Oh, Allan, don’t say that!” 

“You think it! Everyone thinks it.” 

“They don’t. Your mask completely hides everything. One 
gets used to it quite soon.” 

“But there’s my hand,” he said. “It’s not only my face.” 

“Oh, I know. Don’t think I don’t realize that your hand was 
your profession.” 

“Oh, damn my profession!” he said. “It’s spoilt my life! 
If it hadn’t been for my profession, you would have been my 
wife by now.” 

“You are a conceited thing, Allan!” She laughed softly. 

“That’s true, isn’t it ? Between us there need be nothing but 
the truth. You can feel as if you were speaking to a dead 
man.” 

“You were quite right, Allan. I was too ignorant to realize 
how right you were; it was all my vanity. I wanted your 
complete surrender; I wanted you to fling caution to the winds.” 

“And I didn’t know enough of women to realize that a girl 
like you wouldn’t have let me do it.” 

Evangeline nodded. “I wanted to be the one to say we must 
wait, I wanted to save you from folly.” 

“Would you have waited, Evangeline?” 

There was a pause. The beautiful clearness of the spring 
evening surrounded them ; the calm of ancient sanctuaries lay at 
their feet; the bleating of young lambs came from the island 
pastures. 

“It would help me now to know that you would have waited 
. . . the battered man would like to know that the whole man 
might have won you. Sorrow’s crown of sorrow is remember- 
ing happier things — at least Tennyson says so.” As he waited 
for her answer, his uncovered face was as dull and immovable 
as stone; his voice was chill and hopeless. He looked like a 
figure of a man, to whom her answer could not matter. 


WITH OTHER EYES 


267 


A voice so unlike Evangeline’s as to be a surprise to her- 
self broke the nervous stillness. “I have waited, Allan. I am 
waiting now.” 

A groan, or rather an expression of anguish broke from his 
compressed lips. “Don’t! That is pity. Spare me pity! 
Where there once was love, spare me anything else!” 

“If I have both for you, Allan, won’t you accept them? Will 
you refuse it a second time, the love you can accept or reject?” 

The very stillness seemed to wait for his answer. The lambs 
had ceased their bleating; a hawk, suspended in the blue, hung 
on his words. Evangeline, lost to all other senses but the ful- 
filling of her high purpose, was animated by a quality of ex- 
citement and elation which deceived Allan, and stayed her 
powers of reason and balance. She had come to Glastonbury 
to do this act, which to her seemed her unmistakable duty. It 
was her sacrifice on the altar of war. She was going to do it 
willingly and ungrudgingly. Her spirit was strong, if indeed 
her flesh was weak. She had just been fortified with a new 
and glorious inrush of spiritual supremacy. 

“How can you feel love for such a man as I am?” Allan 
said, slowly and bitterly. “It’s impossible — a half-handed, half- 
faced grotesque of a human man!” 

“But if the half of the man I love is better than the whole 
of anyone else, Allan?” 

Allan groaned. Was it fair to tempt him? “I believe you 
could make yourself marry me,” he said. “But if I have only 
half my face and only one hand, I have still my wits. I’m 
not a fool.” 

“I know you’re not, Allan.” 

“Well, my senses tell me that you can’t want to marry a man 
like me.” 

“They tell you wrong.” 

He turned round and faced her. He had been mindful up 
to now to keep his perfect profile clearly visible, to hide the 
masked side of his face. 

“Is that true?” He spoke madly, wildly. “Don’t lie to me. 
As your lover, I feel the same man that I ever was. As your 
husband I shall want the love you would have given to me when 
I was undamaged. Do you understand ? Can you give it?” 


268 


WITH OTHER EYES 


“The war has changed us all, Allan. You won’t find any 
woman or man the same.” 

“That is letting me down gently! Good God!” he said. 
“I was a fool to imagine you could ! It would have been kinder 
to have left me alone.” He drew himself away from her. 

“Then you don’t want to marry me, Allan? You don’t think 
you would be happier if I were your wife?” 

“Not if you shrank from me, not if your love is all pity.” 

Evangeline took his left hand in hers and held it, even 
against his attempt to withdraw it. 

“You are so bitter,” she said, “so determined to exaggerate 
things, so hard on those who love you.” 

“You nearly made me forget what I know you really feel for 
me. You almost wrecked your life a minute ago. I’m still 
human.” 

“I told you I loved you. I asked you to marry me. I came 
to Glastonbury only for that reason.” 

“Before my accident, you as much as said to me that you 
despised me. You said the old Evangeline was dead. That 
meant that the Evangeline who once loved me loved me no 
longer — I was to jolly well understand that. Added to that, 
there is now my disfigurement.” 

“Can one’s first instinctive, headlong love ever die, Allan? 
I was angry because the man I loved hadn’t joined up. You 
did join up. Fate treated you cruelly, abominably!” 

“And because of that you are going to sacrifice yourself, to 
try and make amends!” 

“Oh, you are so unfair. When I was a girl I showed my 
love for you too plainly. Again, as a woman, I offer it to you, 
and you refuse to believe that it is good enough!” 

“If it could be for your happiness as well as my own, Evan- 
geline, you must know how I want you!” 

“I shall never be happy if you don’t marry me.” 

Allan put his hand up to his face. If he had had two 
hands, he would have buried his head in them. A whirlwind 
of passion for the girl at his side exhausted his defences. 
Evangeline put her strong young arms round him and leaned 
against him. Her dark hair brushed his hand as she leant her 
head against it. 


WITH OTHER EYES 269 

“Take me, Allan/’ she said. “Let us try to make life sweet 
and good together.” 

Allan removed his hand from his face. His one arm went 
rounds her. Kiss her he could not; his mask denied him the 
privilege. A sob such as Evangeline had never heard before, 
a sob of anguish, passion and despair, made her doubly 
gracious to him. If there was anything that was hers which 
would lessen his despair, it must be generously his. 

“You offer me heaven,” he whispered. “ Do you know that?” 

“Just my silly self, Allan, that is all.” 

“From the blackness of hell, and you offer me heaven!” 

Evangeline caressed his hand. “We are both far too im- 
perfect to be happy in heaven, Allan. Don’t expect too much 
from me; just take me for better or worse.” 

“If you knew what it meant!” he said. “Think of my life 
here in the future without you!” 

“I won’t think,” Evangeline said, “because we are going to 
be together.” She was silent for a moment, and then said 
gently, “Perhaps I am better off in the way of money than you 
thought, Allan. By my father’s will, if my mother married 
again, half her income was to come to me. I didn’t know that 
when I made the match — honest injun, I didn’t! And so far 
I’ve not needed money.” 

Allan smiled. It was so like Evangeline, the old wilful, 
dominating Evangeline. But the smile died away and lost 
itself in remorse. Did she still think he worshipped pros- 
perity? 

“I have quite a nice little income for two elderly, staid people. 
The war has altered everyone’s outlook. We have left off cry- 
ing for the moon; life is made up of ‘substitutes.’ ” f 

Her humour did not bring back his smile. 

“We can live here, and you can help your father. And when 
the war is over, we can travel. You must come to Grand Pre 
to see my relations.” 

“And you will have a fine thing to show them — a penniless 
husband, with half a face and only one hand! You can’t do 
it.” 

“Oh, Allan, you will be a war-hero!” 

“I wasn’t in the war,” he said brazenly. “You’ll never 
forget that. Leave me out of your return to Acadie.” 


270 


WITH OTHER EYES 


“No, I won’t,” she said. “I’m engaged to you. We are going 
to share all things and bear all things together.” Her en- 
thusiasm was bound to triumph over Allan’s determined misery, 
over his brave refusal of her offer. The feeling of victory ex- 
cited and elated her. She forgot the real facts of the cause for 
which she was fighting. She forgot that there is the physical 
as well as the spiritual side in the urgency of love. She had not 
Alex’s experience of the practical side of matrimony to caution 
her. 

“I adore you!” he said suddenly. “When I left you, long 
ago, that night at the door of the Chalice Hostel, I didn’t know 
how much I loved you. I only found it out when I was away 
from you. I worked like a tiger to try to forget you ... or 
it may have been to make a big name for you! My profession 
became a part of you. I thought I should come back and say, 
‘Now I have something besides myself to offer you; now our 
love won’t fly out at the window, for poverty won’t come in at 
the door!’ ” 

“Oh, Allan! And I only wanted you yourself, your young, 
headlong, love-driven self!” 

“I know,” he said. “I was a fool, but I couldn’t trust my- 
self.” He paused. “Girls are different to men. If I had be- 
come engaged to you, I couldn’t have worked; I should have had 
to marry you.” 

“I know. I understand now. I didn’t then.” 

“Do you?” he said. “You could have waited, you could 
have been happy with me as a lover. I knew that I couldn’t. 
I knew that my work would have gone to pieces until I was 
married to you; my whole mind and senses would have been 
usurped by you.” 

“Yes. I was too young to understand, Allan.” 

Ever since, I’ve only loved you more and more. No other 
girl has interested me, no other girl can come within miles of 
you. If only I had trusted to our love!” 

“And now I am yours, an ever so much wiser woman.” 

“And what have I to give you?” he said. “You have beauty, 
money, youth — everything !” 

“But shouldn’t I have been myself without all these things, 
Allan?” 

“No,” he said, almost gaily; it was his first surrender to her 


WITH OTHER EYES 


271 


wooing, “you wouldn’t, for ‘you’ means to me blue eyes and 
beauty, and all the speed of youth, and feminine refinement. 
You wouldn’t be you without all these things, if you were as 
loathsome to look at as I am.” 

“Allan,” she said quickly, “I have never seen you with your 
mask off. I’m never going to. Your father says that you need 
never take it off, and he says that as time goes on you won’t be 
nearly so much disfigured. I am never going to see you without 
it, until it is no longer necessary.” 

“Very well,” he said. “God knows I don’t want you to!” 

“When I have to wear false teeth,” she said gaily, “I promise 
you I’ll never let you see me without them.” 

“Agreed!” he said gently. “You’re wonderful, Evangeline, 
so wonderful that I feel dumb.” 

“Then we’re engaged!” she said. “You have at last accepted 
my unmaidenly proposal, my absolute entreaty to marry me?” 

Allan raised her hands to his face. Alas ! the pity of it that 
his poor lips might not press hers in devout surrender. With 
his fingers covering the youth and softness of hers, they sat in 
silence. 

A town clock struck. Evangeline started. “I shall be late,” 
she said. “Let’s go back. I promised mother that I would be 
back in good time.” 

“Leave me here,” he said. 

“No, Allan, come with me. Come and tell them.” 

“Please leave me. I want to be alone. I’ll come later.” He 
smiled almost boyishly. “Do as I tell you.” 

“But I promised your father that I’d bring you back.” 

“I’m all right,” he said restively. “I’m perfectly well. I 
can see and walk all right; I’m not quite helpless. I suppose 
I’m lucky to have my two legs left!” He looked at her en- 
treatingly. “Do go, dearest,” he said. “I must be alone. I’ve 
not grown accustomed to proposals yet.” 

“All right,” Evangeline said. “If I meet your father, I’m go- 
ing to tell him the news. I want to see him smile.” 

“Wait, Evangeline! Let’s think this over.” 

“No, no,” she said. “It’s a settled matter. Any drawing 
back now is a breach of promise. I’m off. Good-bye!” With 
a kiss wafted from her finger-tips and a gay smile, Evangeline 
turned her back on her lover and with long, swinging strides 


272 


WITH OTHER EYES 


hurried down the hill, the hill where he had found her, look- 
ing at the world from upside-down. ' 

She would not allow herself to think; she would not question 
her own feelings. She had made Allan happier; she had given 
him the one thing in this world which could make his life en- 
durable. He had shown her its blackness, the depth of his 
despair and the torture of his mind. Not by what he had said; 
it was what he had left unsaid which hurt her. In this world 
of self-sacrifice, her attempt to bring back happiness into Allan’s 
life was a poor little thing to do, nor would she face it as a 
sacrifice. On that side of the question she did not allow any 
self-glorification. She was going to be his wife; she would 
love him and give herself to him in the way of all loving, happy 
wives. 

This phase of mind kept her from arguing with herself. 
Beyond what she had done, she went not one step further. She 
kept her mind ri vetted on its high eminence. She would not 
visualize the future. Allan needed her, that was her surety. 
With the evening air cool on her forehead, and the meadows 
starred with flowers meeting her gaze, it seemed a good and ex- 
cellent thing that she had done. It was well that she had settled 
the matter and given what consolation she could to Allan. He 
was her old lover; he was the doctor’s only son, and Evangeline 
loved with a youthful ardour her gallant, adoring stepfather. 

Allan had said that she was offering him heaven. How 
splendid it was to feel that of her own doing she could give 
any suffering man heaven ! She walked faster and faster, while 
the excitement of emotion thrilled her and tuned up her nerves. 
Soon she would have justified her existence; that was sufficient. 
The war demanded some good reason for every woman’s exist- 
ence as well as for every man’s. Her raison d’etre was to be a 
wife to Allan, to help him to help others. 

A little out of breath she arrived at her mother’s house. She 
was five minutes later than she had promised. Her stepfather 
was flirting with his wife while they waited together for her 
return. Mary’s coat and gloves lay on the sofa. The doctor had 
still a lover’s eagerness in his attentions ; Mary had to be helped 
into her coat, and he had to bend over her wrist while he 
fastened the buttons of her glove. 

“I’m not late, am I?” Evangeline said. “At least, not very?” 


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WITH OTHER EYES 

“No,” the doctor said, “only five minutes, and I hadn’t seen 
Mary for a quarter of an hour all to-day, so we forgive you.” 

Evangeline went up close to the doctor and put her arms 
round his neck. “I am late,” she said, “because I was pro- 
posing to Allan.” Her head went down on the big man’s chest; 
her face was crushed close to his breast. 

The doctor bent his head to hers and tenderly caressed her 
dark hair. “My dearest,” he said, as he pressed her closely to 
him, “has my boy accepted you?” The doctor raised his head 
as he spoke. His eyes sought Mary’s. Her child was in his 
arms ; she had offered herself to his son. 

Evangeline’s blue eyes were raised to meet their gaze. They 
were tearless, exultant. “I made him, Doc; he just had to ac- 
cept me!” 

Evangeline was trembling. The doctor could feel to what 
a high pitch her nerves were strung. He understood the girl’s 
temperament far better than either her mother or his son. He 
understood the nature of the emotion which she felt at that 
moment — her unconscious exaltation of self-sacrifice, her 
ecstatic happiness in having made Allan happy, in her con- 
quest of his depression and despair. It was all a fine part and 
portion of the girl who was to him a dear and beautiful daughter, 
a wild child of wide lands. 

Evangeline was moulded on generous lines. There was 
nothing small in either her faults or her virtues. The old 
romantic Evangeline was as alive to-day as the girl who said 
that every woman longs, or has longed to resist, or rather to 
succomb to a Sir Launcelot. The war had affected her, but it 
had not changed her. Men no longer needed to go out and look 
for dangers as they had in Sir Launcelot’s day, to prove that 
they were worthy of their knighthood. The girl knew well that 
the world to-day was full of heroes far nobler than the Knights 
of the Round Table. The Doctor knew that she was a woman 
whom the war was driving to this act of mercy; he knew that she 
was doing it to prove herself worthy of the war. As the war 
demands the best and the finest that is in us all, he was ex- 
quisitely aware that the girl in his arms was giving of her best. 

“You made him accept you, did you? And was he so very 
reluctant?” 

Evangeline withdrew herself from the Doctor’s arms and 


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WITH OTHER EYES 

went over to her mother before she said, “You knew I loved 
Allan. All these years he was in my thoughts. Little mamma, 
say you are glad.” 

The pity in Mary kept her silent, but she embraced her tail 
child. Evangeline stooped over her in the old protecting way, 
while she glanced at the Doctor. 

“Must I go to the meeting?” she said. 

“Certainly not, if you’d rather stay at home.” It was the 
Doctor who spoke. 

“But I want little mamma, Doc, and it’s rude and unkind 
to you.” 

“Keep her by all means,” he said. “I will put in an appear- 
ance — that will do.” 

With one of her swooping movements, Evangeline lifted her 
mother up in her arms. “Just a bit of the old days, Doc, for 
half-an-hour.” Her smile was all love and gentleness. 

The Doctor banished them with a correspondingly tender 
smile. “Be off, both of you,” he said. “I want silence.” 

When Evangeline, with his protesting wife held close in her 
arms, had left the room, the Doctor sat down in his low easy- 
chair. His head sank almost to the level of his knees ; his hands 
covered his eyes. 

“Can we allow it?” he said. “Why has she done it? Can 
the old love have revived? Has it, after all, stood the test?” 
His heavy frame shook. “No, it isn’t that! It can’t be the love 
she once felt. I wish to God I could think so! What will she 
tell Mary? What will Allan tell me?” He pulled out his 
watch and looked at it. “I have no words for any platform to- 
night. It won’t be the suffering Serbians that will be in my 
mind; it will be things nearer home — it will be that girl’s eyes 
and the new expression in them.” 

He rose from his seat and gathered together the notes which 
he had made for his speech. When he had folded them in order 
and put them in his pocket-book, he hurried from the room. The 
unacknowledged dread that Allan would appear before he got 
out of the house hastened his actions. If Allan did appear, it 
would be good-bye to anything like a passable speech from him- 
self that night. An eager audience, he knew, was already in the 
hall, waiting to hear the lady-doctor speak upon the subject of 
her work in Serbia. 


WITH OTHER EYES 275 

As he shut the house-door behind him, he looked back. It 
held the two dearest women on earth to him. 

“If it isn’t love,” he said, “and it can’t be, we won’t permit it. 
Only a love that passeth all understanding could make the thing 
a success for either of them. My poor boy ! My poor, ambitious 
boy! That a woman should marry you for pity!” 

He fingered the papers which contained his notes in his 
pocket, as much as to say, “This is what I have to think about 
now. The war allows very little time for personal sorrows. His 
gardener had lost two sons in the war; he had just heard that 
morning that a third was wounded and missing. What were his 
troubles compared to such as these? 

He passed the man in his best clothes going to the meeting. 
They exchanged a few words. 

“I hope we shall take up a good collection, Andrew,” the 
Doctor said. “It’s wonderful what this little place can do!” 

“I hope so, sir. I’ve got my bit of paper ready, anyhow.” 

The Doctor looked at the toil-worn man. “Well done, An- 
drew! That’s a big sum for you. Can you spare it?” 

“We’d have to spare a deal more if the Germans was here, 
sir. There was nothing left for them poor Serbians to spare, 
was there, sir?” 

“Good-night,” the Doctor said. He was a strong man, but 
something caught in his throat like a vise. 

At the meeting the gardener was suddenly startled by hearing 
his master quote his actual words from the platform. They 
brought down a thunder of applause and raised the collection 
by thirty per cent. Andrew had not cast his bread upon the 
waters in vain. 

* * * * * * 

It was not until late that night, in the privacy of their own 
room, that Mary was able to speak to her husband on the subject 
of Evangeline’s engagement. The engaged couple had been with 
them at their evening meal, which was not eaten that night until 
the doctor returned from the lecture. 

Evangeline was in high spirits. She was so gracious and lov- 
ing to Allan that in spite of himself he forgot his depression and 
became infected by her merry badinage. Allan would not have 
been human if he had withstood her. He had spent a terrible 
hour alone with himself and with the forces in him, which were 


276 


WITH OTHER EYES 


at war with his acceptance of Evangeline’s offer. They had 
worked hard for Allan’s higher and nobler self. They had 
almost won; he had walked down the hill, trodden by the feet 
of England’s first messengers of the new religion of self-sacri- 
fice, with the determination in his heart to renounce the happiness 
which Evangeline had held out to him, to give her back her free- 
dom. Into his broken, ruined life, she had offered to bring the 
only thing which could make it humanly endurable. Full of 
his high ideal, of what his honour as a man demanded of him, 
of what he knew to be fair to the girl who could not be fair to 
herself, he was met by an Evangeline lovelier than anything 
he had ever seen, lovelier and more loving. She had donned her 
most becoming gown; a little flush of excitement tinged the 
clear pallor of her cheeks. 

When Allan appeared, she sprang towards him. “I have told 
them our news, Allan — you’ve only got to receive a fatherly 
blessing. We have only got one in-law each. You’re the one 
who’s got the mother-in-law. I’ve only got a father-in-law, and 
he never bites!” 

Allan was whirled into the situation. Evangeline carried him 
along with her enthusiasm. The scene palpitated with her 
vitality and spirit. He was shy. All his pre-arranged plans 
fell from him. They had suddenly vanished into thin air. He 
looked at his future mother-in-law for help. She was always 
so gentle and tender. During his convalescence she had helped 
him to keep control of his nerves, and control was necessary if 
he wished to save himself from melancholia. 

“Can you give her to me?” he asked. “Will you allow it? 
Is it possible?” 

Mary laughed her pretty, youthful laugh. “My dear boy! 
Allow it! Give her to you? Why, she allowed me to marry 
your father; she gave me to him!” 

Allan looked at Evangeline, whose arm was linked through 
his father’s. Her head was resting caressingly on his shoulder. 
She was a fine height beside him. 

As he looked, his power to give her up failed him. A voice 
urged him to take what the gods offered him. Surely his broken 
life and cruel fate deserved some compensation? Besides, she 
looked exultantly happy; he had never seen her more glowing, 
more vital. 


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WITH OTHER EYES 

“But do you approve ?” he said to Mary. “Do you, or do 
you not, object?” He looked at his right arm; the lower portion 
of his sleeve was turned back at the stump of his arm and 
pinned to the upper part. He had not yet received his artificial 
hand. His eye dwelt on it significantly. 

“If you both love each other,” she said, “nothing else matters.” 

What more could she say? 

“God knows I love her,” he said, “but I am not what you have 
a right to expect for a son-in-law.” 

“You are my husband’s son, Allan. Whom should I love 
more dearly as a son-in-law?” She smiled bravely. “This 
room contains our little world. We four, we are complete in 
ourselves.” 

“You are so kind,” Allan said; his voice broke suddenly. “I 
never hoped or imagined that there could be such goodness, such 
wonderful love.” 

Evangeline left the Doctor’s side and went to her lover. 
“This is our engagement night, Allan. I’m not going to allow 
any sadness or tears! Now, look happy, and say that you are 
awfully happy. Anyone would think that I’d made you promise 
to marry me!” 

“And so you did !” he said as he caught her hand in his. “Oh, 
father, I never dreamed of such a thing! I daren’t have asked 
her.” 

“Oh, that’s right — it was the woman who tempted you, the 
old, old story. How history repeats itself!” Evangeline’s voice 
was gaily mocking. She was determined to banish tragedy. 

“Well, Allan,” his father said, “I think you’re bound to take 
her. She seems quite determined to marry you, and I know 
something of her will by this time!” He laughed. “I was jolly 
glad, I can tell you, that she had made up her mind to marry 
her mother to me before I fell in love with her!” 

“Well, let’s sit down to supper,” Evangeline said, “and drink 
our own healths. I’m so hungry.” 

At supper Evangeline made a good feint of eating a great deal. 
She piled her plate with salad, which she contrived to put away 
almost untouched when she cleared the table for the next course ; 
at supper they always waited upon themselves. On being asked 
if she would take pudding, she accepted both gooseberry-tart and 
chocolate-cream. The Doctor’s quick eye detected the excite- 


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WITH OTHER EYES 


ment which was keeping the girl up, while it was also preventing 
her from eating. Food, she felt, would choke her if she at- 
tempted to swallow it. 

The subject of their engagement was allowed to drop, and the 
Serbian lecture was discussed, also the day’s war-news. Evan- 
geline’s life at the limbless hospital afforded her much food for 
conversation. She had told her mother about Mrs. Hemingway’s 
husband being in a hospital quite close to hers, but she had not 
alluded to her own intimacy with the curate whom she had met 
at St. David’s. Her mother had not been with them on that 
excursion, so his existence was unknown to her. 

In the privacy of their room that night, the Doctor said, with 
a gravity which was not lost on his wife, “Mary, what do you 
think of the turn events have taken? Can we allow it?” 

“I’m afraid we can’t prevent it.” 

“Does Evangeline love him?” The Doctor’s voice betrayed 
his anxiety. “If she does, that is all that matters. If she 
doesn’t . . He shook his head. 

“I don’t know.” Mary’s words came slowly, regretfully. 

“You don’t think so? Did she say anything to you when I 
was out?” 

“No, nothing that mattered. The chatterbox Evangeline be- 
comes as silent as an oyster on these occasions.” 

“I know; she has extraordinary self-control. But she wanted 
to be with you ... I thought she would confide in you.” 

“It is Evangeline’s actions which confide, never her words. 
She kept me on her knee for about half-an-hour, rocking me 
backwards and forwards as if I was a crying child. Every now 
and then she kissed me passionately, almost wildly. It was as 
if I was someone else. I felt that she scarcely knew that I was 
her mother. Her thoughts seemed in the clouds.” 

“She said nothing, gave no expression of love for the boy? 
You got nothing out of her?” 

“Not a word, except now and again a murmur of ‘Poor Allan, 
poor ambitious Allan!’ I know she’s fond of him, David. Just 
once, when I said to her, ‘Are you happy, Eve?’ she started, as 
if I had reminded her that I was there. ‘Happy?’ she said. 
‘Until the war is over who can be happy? The world has said 
good-bye to happiness.’ ‘I meant about your engagement,’ I 


279 


WITH OTHER EYES 

said. ‘Of course I am. It was I who asked Allan. There is that 
much of happiness left to us, making others less unhappy.’ 

“I got no more from her on the subject. Evangeline never 
tells anything by being questioned. It was no use; I know her 
moods.” 

The doctor took his wife by the shoulders and looked into her 
eyes. “You are no happier about it, Mary, than I am.” 

Mary let herself weep. Her romance was perfect. Evan- 
geline’s seemed so imperfect, so tragic. Never had her girl 
looked more beautiful or noble than she had done that evening. 
There was a nobility in Evangeline’s beauty which made her 
something far more than a pretty girl. 

Mary wept unrestrainedly as she pictured her child with her 
wild wings clipped, her life narrowed down to the daily com- 
panionship of blighted, maimed Allan. That Allan had wanted 
courage to resist and withstand her superb generosity drew no 
rebuke from her lips. She could not blame him. She knew 
man’s weakness and his strength. It would have been almost 
outside the possibility of a young man’s nature to have refused 
her as she was that night. 

The Doctor tried to comfort her. “They are not married yet,” 
he said. “Don’t let us court tragedy and unhappiness. Our 
worst unhappiness is always anticipation.” 

“But,” Mary said, “I feel that it will be infinitely crueller and 
harder for Allan if my girl gives him up, if hers is net a lasting 
affection.” 

“You are quite right,” he said. “Once he is on the footing of 
a lover with her, heaven help him if he has to give her up!” 

“That’s what I feel,” Mary said. “Evangeline is so rash, so 
impetuous. If it is only pity for Allan that has made her do it, 
it would have been a thousand times better to have left him alone. 
It would be unthinkable if she gave him up!” Mary shivered 
as if a cold hand had touched her heart. 

“Even if it is only pity, she’ll go through with it — that’s what 
I’m afraid of. Evangeline will never retract, never give in.” 

“How are we to find out?” Mary said. “She can keep any- 
thing to herself ; she never needs a confidant.” 

“Trust in Providence,” her husband said. “It’s not a bad 
friend. If it doesn’t stop the marriage, then let us hope that 


280 


WITH OTHER EYES 


their union was arranged by the Power which directs and gov- 
erns all things.” 

“You are such a comfort, David.” 

David stooped down and kissed her wet eyes. “And so are 
you,” he said contentedly. 

“I wish that I felt as certain of Evangeline’s happiness as I 
feel of my own.” 

“Ridiculous woman!” he said tenderly. “It’s time you went 
to bed.” 


CHAPTER X 


It was a beautiful day, warm enough for the soldiers at Lin- 
cluden to be sitting in the grounds in invalid chairs or moving 
about on crutches. Some of them were practising their lately 
adjusted artificial limbs. 

Evangeline was weeding and turning up the soil of a round 
flower bed, in the centre of which was a flesh-coloured rhodo- 
dendron in full bloom. The forget-me-nots which had sur- 
rounded it were over; they had ceased flowering, so with the 
ruthlessness of successful gardening, they were being cast into 
outer darkness; their old age must give place to youth; their 
faded beauty was unwanted, depressing, unkind. 

A voice startled her and brought a quick flush to her cheeks. 
She had been in a state of nervous expectancy of the same voice 
all the morning. 

“You have returned from your holiday — you are hard at work 
again?” 

“Yes,” Evangeline said, while her heart pounded idiotically 
at her side, “very hard at work. It is rather nice to find that 
the flowers which were over three weeks ago in the South are 
just at their best here. I think there is quite three weeks’ dif- 
ference in the seasons, don’t you? I’m glad I haven’t missed 
the best months here. The birds are still singing gloriously.” 
She spoke quickly and unsympathetically; her remarks were 
merely things to say. 

Hugh realized their impersonal character, her anxiety to fence 
off any return to their former footing of intimacy. 

“I hope you feel better for your change.” The conventional 
words were not what Hugh wanted to say; they were the out- 
come of the defences which she had suddenly built up between 
them. What they defended he scarcely knew. 

“I was awfully fit when I went away. I am very well now, 
thank you.” 

She took another small plant out of the flat seedling-box by 
her side and dug the trowel into the earth. 

281 


282 


WITH OTHER EYES 


“What are you planting ?” he asked. “The poor forget-me- 
nots are to be forgotten, are they?” 

“These are amaranths.” Evangeline did not raise her head. 
“We can’t run to expensive bedding-out plants — these make a 
fine show and are cheap.” 

“I am not learned,” he said. “What are they called in plain 
English?” 

There was a busy turning of the trowel in the soil before she 
answered his question. She spoke quickly, as she threw a small 
bundle of rubbish into a pail by her side. “Amaranths? It’s 
just the homely Love-lies-bleeding in plain English.” 

“Love-lies-bleeding!” Hugh said slowly, and for the life of 
him he could not think of another word to say. Love-lies-bleed- 
ing was to take the place of the blue forget-me-nots which he 
loved so well ? 

There was a lengthy pause, while Evangeline continued her 
planting. 

“Did you enjoy yourself?” he asked bravely. 

Evangeline looked at him through dark lashes. Her eyes 
gave him no encouragement to go on talking. She was busy; he 
ought to leave her. 

“Yes, thanks, so far as enjoyment goes nowadays. I heard a 
great deal about food and rations and substitutes.” 

“You were visiting your mother?” 

“Yes.” Evangeline rose from her knees. The circle of Love- 
lies-bleeding was completed. She cleared up the mess of soil 
and broken leaves which was scattered round the bed. It looked 
prim and very tidy. “You are making progress,” she said. “Is 
this your first walk? You were in your chair when I left.” 

“Yes. You didn’t congratulate me.” He looked down at his 
feet as he spoke. He knew that Evangeline had kept her eyes 
so carefully fixed on her flower-bed that she had not noticed 
that the bandages no longer showed on his ankle; the end of his 
trouser-leg was fastened over, the stump and pinned up behind. 

“You are looking much stronger.” 

“lam feeling extraordinarily fit, thanks.” 

Evangeline was brushing off the soil from her uniform. When 
it was quite clean their eyes met. Neither of them said a word 
more; their absurd and almost formal greeting was so unmis- 
takably the result of a forced and necessary constraint on Evan- 


WITH OTHER EYES 283 

geline’s part and a consciousness on Hugh’s that something had 
happened during her absence which must affect their friendship 
and intimacy. They were both unhappy and nervous in their 
embarrassment. 

Hugh dared not break down the barrier by asking Evangeline 
what had happened. He knew the girl too well to advance 
further than she wished him to go for the present. 

“Now that bed is finished,” she said, “I must be off.” 

“Are you going to plant any more amaranths? May I come 
with you? — I’m so bored with myself.” 

“I think that is all we have of them. I must go and ask for 
my orders.” 

“I’m glad,” he said, “I hope it is all you’ve got.” 

She looked at him, and by way of explanation, he merely said 
gravely, “ ‘A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot’ — you know 
those lines, of course?” 

“Yes,” she said, “T. E. Brown’s — 

‘Rose plot, 

Fringed pool, 

Femed grot. ... ’ ” 

She paused, while he took up the words: 

“ ‘The. veriest school 

Of peace; and yet the fool 
Contends that God is not.’ ” 

Their eyes held, battling, strained and tender. 

“That was why I don’t want Love-lies-bleeding,” he said, as 
he looked towards the splendid view, the background for the 
wooded park, which lay before them — Dumbarton Castle rising 
from its high rock in the Clyde, and the nearer green hills, ro- 
mantic and calm, with a clear, clean light sanctifying their 
farther heights. 

“‘Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool! 

Nay, but I have a sign; 

’Tis very sure God walks in mine.’ ” 

He smiled as he finished the lines. “That’s why I don’t want 
it,” he said again. “This is a sanctuary — don’t let bleeding 
Love enter into it. Can’t you plant forget-me-nots again?” 

“They don’t go on blooming for ever. We must look ahead — 
they are almost over.” 


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WITH OTHER EYES 


“We picked them at St. David’s in midsummer.” His voice 
was detached; the present had little to do with his thoughts 
Why look ahead ? He felt stunned, lost, at a disadvantage. He 
had heard that Evangeline had returned; he had walked about 
the garden hoping to meet her. He had expected a happy greet- 
ing, a friendly re-union. Instead of which he met tragic eyes, 
trying to be disdainful, a stranger. 

“Those were wild forget-me-nots at St. David’s — they are 
much later; they grow in very moist places. Keeping the beds 
supplied with a fresh rotation of plants is one of the clever things 
in good gardening. Of course we can’t do it in war-time, but we 
are trying to give some brightness to the place. The men like 
flowers, I think.” 

“The trees are so fine.” He pointed to one. “Personally, I 
should scarcely miss the flowers. I’m awfully fond of trees, 
aren’t you?” 

“I know so little about trees. I wish I wasn’t so ignorant on 
the subject. We are never taught the names of trees as we are 
of flowers. But the woods in Scotland are beautiful, I think. I 
prefer them in the winter, don’t you?” 

“I have never been in Scotch woods — this is my first visit to 
the North.” He looked at his footless leg. 

“Oh, I forgot! Of course, you haven’t had the chance. Well, 
in the winter they are wonderful. I really always mean to learn 
some of the names of the trees I love the most.” 

“Nisbet’s ‘Child’s Song in Spring’ used to help me to remem- 
ber some of the familiar ones. Do you know it?” 

Evangeline shook her head. They were talking as they were 
walking across a long stretch of grass side by side, talking about 
trees and flowers, when all the while their senses were singing 
and ringing with but three words — “You and me,” “You and 
me,” and “Me and you.” Their inner voices said protestingly, 
“We are afraid to be real, you and me,” “We are afraid to be 
true, you and me,” “We are afraid to be sincere, me and you.” 

“It goes like this,” he said: — 

“ ‘The silver birch is a dainty lady, 

She wears a satin gown, 

The elm makes the old church shady, 

She will not live in town. 


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WITH OTHER EYES 

“ ‘The English oak is a sturdy fellow, 

He gets his green coat late ; 

The willow is smart in a suit of yellow, 

While the brown beech trees wait. 

“ ‘Such a gay green gown God gives the larches, 

As green as He is good! 

The hazels hold up their arms for arches 
When spring rides through the wood. 

“ ‘The chestnut’s proud, and the lilac’s pretty, 

The poplar’s gentle and tall 
But the plane tree’s kind to the poor dull city — 

I love him best of all.’ ” 

Hugh’s voice was musical and sympathetic. 

“How neat!” Evangeline said. “And those are the sort of 
things which do help us to remember — a fool like myself, at 
least.” 

She turned to go. They were creeping back to intimacy; she 
felt less strong, less distant. 

“When will you play for me?” he asked boldly. “Soon, I 
hope, for I have got one or two new songs. I’m sure you’ll like 
them.” 

With a pail in one hand and a seedling-box in the other, 
Evangeline stood irresolute, weakening. 

“I don’t know,” she said, “I really don’t.” 

“Don’t you want my songs any more? I got two songs I 
thought you would like — I got them on purpose for you.” 

“I’ll come to-morrow, if that will suit, after work hours.” 

His air of youthful abashment had completely disarmed her; 
he had spoken humbly, sadly. 

“At five o’clock to-morrow?” 

“Oh, no — five-thirty.” No eyes met his; no smiles dazzled 
his senses. Evangeline, without a word more, left him. They 
were of no interest to each other; it was only his songs which she 
wanted to hear. That was what she wished to imply. But she 
did not succeed. 

While she was hard at work on a wide herbaceous border, she 
realized how forced and unnatural their manner to each other 
had been; as she dug the fork into the ground, she dug it in 
fiercely, her action was expressive of her contempt for her weak- 
ness and lack of character. She could have talked to him about 


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WITH OTHER EYES 


a hundred things naturally and simply if she had kept her wits 
about her. She could have told him about Alex Hemingway, 
and of a hundred different things which would have shifted 
their minds from the danger-zone of personalities. Idiot that 
she was ! And now she had promised to play for him the next 
afternoon. She was to hear his voice again; he would sing to 
her as no-one else had ever sung to her before, songs he had 
bought for her sake. She knew her danger; she knew the an- 
guish it would cause Allan if he knew; and yet, could she have 
refused to play for him ? What excuse could she have made ? 

The answer to her question lay in the very fact that she was 
keeping her engagement to Allan a secret. She began arguing 
against herself, against the necessity of telling Hugh of her 
engagement. If she had told him at once, she knew that there 
would have been no songs for her. 

Meanwhile, Hugh, limping about the fine old grounds, paused 
under ancient trees or at his favourite points of view, to hug to 
himself his secret satisfaction of the fact that all the frankness 
and intimacy had fled from Evangeline’s manner. He did not 
know why he felt so glad when he should have felt sad. There 
was no explanation for his gladness. But nevertheless, much as 
he had longed for the dear blueness of her eyes when they held 
their frank gaiety for him, he was prouder and more pleased that 
they had withheld it. The knowledge that she had been horribly 
embarrassed and ill-at-ease in his presence told him precious, 
subtle things. 

Had she discovered that she cared for him, perhaps a little, 
while she was all the world to him? Was she resenting the fact 
that she was not so completely independent and free? Was she 
determined to cut herself off from him? To go her own way 
and preserve her heart from danger? If so, her promise to play 
his accompaniments was a decided concession. 

As he limped along, he hummed the air of the new song which 
he had treasured for her return. Everything, it seemed to him, 
had been waiting for her to come back — the budding flowers, the 
fledgling birds, the soaring larks. All the year’s green was ready 
to greet her, and the daisies would kiss her feet as she walked. 
The late daffodils under the sombre trees would laugh to her 
in high glee, well pleased that they had bided her return; the 
white wind-flowers would bend their heads while his lady, like 


WITH OTHER EYES 287 

a shy Rosalind, hastened to her tryst; the pheasant-eyes would 
wink knowingly, for they always knew. 

Hugh was so high in the world’s gladness, that the small 
impediment of a missing foot did not chain his soaring manhood. 
Achilles, young and swift of foot, travelled no faster than the 
limping soldier in his fine chariot of desire. He was on crutches, 
but his mind bore him through realms of gold, high above shore- 
less seas. Unlike the brave god, his right heel had not proved 
his vulnerable spot; but love left him forgetful that it lay in 
the shambles of war, that the whole man he once had been could 
never be again, forgetful of the fact that in Flanders he had seen 
hell and tasted of the bitterness of hate. He was young; he 
forgot the war, as only youth can forget it. 

All the world was young to-day; the promise of love peeped 
at him from every sheltered flower. A wee, brown-f rocked wren, 
no bigger than a queen bumble bee, twitted him, with bright eyes 
which were all for wifely cares. Cherry blossoms white and 
cherry blossoms pink seemed to be imitating the flood of colour 
which had so treacherously played about his Evangeline’s throat. 

“A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot!” Truly a lovesome 
thing where Evangeline walked! 

* * * * * * 

When her day’s work was done, a tired Evangeline sat herself 
down in her cottage-bedroom to write to Allan. She had prom- 
ised him two letters every week. He was not to expect long ones, 
for, as she vividly expressed it, they would probably be only 
breathless messages, mere winged words “from me to you.” It 
was “from me to you” that mattered, the private love tokens from 
a woman to a man, borne through the night by hurrying trains 
across desolate country and sorted by casual hands. Those little 
messages, hidden in the privacy of envelopes — what a world of 
happiness or pain they convey ! 

Now that she was back again at Lincluden, with Hugh’s 
sunny disposition dancing before her eyes, she realized how 
strangely unreal and ecstatic her fortnight in Glastonbury had 
been. The fortnight had passed, but it was only the beginning 
of a life there which would have to be lived and endured bravely 
and smilingly. 

When Hugh smiled his eyes almost closed, in a delicious 
wrinkling way, and his thick lashes brushed his cheeks like a 


288 


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little child’s. Why did she think of them and see them now, 
when her pen was in her hand to write to Allan? And why 
did the loss of a foot matter so much less than the loss of a hand ? 
Hugh’s hands had never touched hers; their meetings had known 
of no handshakes. Yet she knew that a lover with hands like 
Hugh’s could dispense with talking. Poor Allan! It was her 
two hands which had had to do all the caressing, for one hand 
has no eloquence, no ways of love. 

Her letter was a rather longer one than usual, for something 
urged her to make amends for her thoughts. It was a fine 
piece of camouflage. No-one would have detected the tragedy 
which was concealed behind its gay words; no-one would have 
imagined that the girl who sent it could have looked as Evan- 
geline looked while she wrote it. 


CHAPTER XI 


At five-thirty the next afternoon Evangeline met Hugh at the 
entrance to the music-room in which they were to practise his 
new songs. She was in a lighter humour than the day before 
and greeted him with one of her old smiles and something of her 
old sympathy and understanding. 

Hugh was looking very well. Exercise had completely re- 
stored his good looks. He had been getting about more freely 
and enjoying his new sense of liberty. His crutches were a 
great advance from the invalid’s chair. 

They sauntered down the room to where the piano stood like 
good comrades, two well-pleased young people. 

“It’s ripping having you back again,” he said. “I stored up 
all sorts of things to say to you.” 

“So did I for you,” she said, in a voice totally forgetful of 
her reserve, “lots and lots of things.” 

Where was the girl of yesterday? Hugh looked at her, and 
as he looked, Evangeline fenced, she retreated. 

“I saw Mrs. Hemingway — I forgot to tell you that yesterday. 
She knows about the Major.” 

“You wouldn’t tell me anything yesterday,” he said. “I was 
afraid that I had offended you. Were you angry about any- 
thing?” 

Evangeline pulled off her right glove, a heavy gardening glove. 
“No, of course not! Why should I have been?” Her eyes 
looked straight ahead of her, through tbe big windows and over 
the stretch of park land. On the grass wild rabbits were frisking 
and skipping about. “Is there anything wilder than a wild 
rabbit,” she said irrelevantly, “or more enviably free?” 

“I know something wilder than a wild rabbit,” he said, “but 
for the moment we were talking about the things which you had 
stored up to tell me. What were they?” 

His words struck her into silence. Had she stored up things 
to tell him? Why had she confessed it? How furious Allan 

289 


290 


WITH OTHER EYES 


would be ! And yet Hugh had only repeated what she had 
unthinkingly acknowledged, what was absolutely true. Her 
stored-up tit-bits were for the companion who would under- 
stand them, appreciate them. Allan had been given the things 
of commoner clay. 

“First tell me what is wilder than a wild rabbit. I have for- 
gotten the things I stored up, if I really did store up anything 
for you, beyond the news of Mrs. Hemingway, and some facts 
about the air-raid, which no doubt you have heard already.” 

“Your spirit or soul is freer than a wild rabbit,” he said. “It 
is the most untamable thing I ever knew.” 

“You are quite mistaken,” she said. “I’m not a bit wild. I 
used to be, perhaps, but now I’m as tame as a slaughtered calf. 
Is anything tamer than veal?” 

“Are you? I shouldn’t have thought it. Your mind belongs 
to the cavalry of the clouds; it is at home in the homeless 
heavens.” 

“You don’t really know me.” 

“You don’t know how much I know you, or what I know 
about you.” 

“I’m so sick of myself! Let’s talk of something else.” 

“I don’t mind what we talk about, so long as you aren’t cross 
like yesterday, so long as we are friends again.” 

“I wasn’t cross. We are just the same as we were before.” 

“I won’t give in! You were horrid. You wouldn’t even say 
you were pleased that I had got some new songs. I began to 
think that all you had said about my voice was humbug.” 

“How absurd! Let’s begin now.” 

They had reached the piano, but he held the songs still in his 
own hands, away from her. 

“Let’s have some ‘Do you remembers?’ first, just to tune me 
up. Do let’s play for a few minutes as we used to do !” 

“How ridiculous! We’ve said all the ‘Do you remembers?’ 
long ago.” 

“Do you remember telling me that you never did anything 
that you didn’t like doing?” 

“Yes, but we’ve had that one before — it’s a chestnut.” 

“I want it again. Do you remember?” 

“Yes, I said I didn’t get all the things I wanted, but that I 
had never done anything I didn’t want to do.” 


WITH OTHER EYES 


291 


“Well, begin doing something you don’t want to do to-day.” 

“I began long ago. I told you I gardened all day long and 
spoilt my nails; they are awful.” 

“Let me look at them,” he said regretfully. “Are they really 
spoilt?” 

She held out her right hand. He held it in one of his and 
made a pretence of examining the nails which were so “awful.” 

“What a characteristic hand!” he said, as he let it go. “Do 
you know that we have never shaken hands? I never felt it 
before.” 

“Characteristic? What of?” Evangeline ignored his per- 
sonal references. 

“Of you, of course.” 

“I told you you didn’t know me.” 

“We’ll see,” he said, “whether I do or don’t.” 

“How can we see, if I don’t know what you think you know 
of me? You may tell any fib you like when I do things.” 

“I know,” he said, “that you are capable of doing any great 
wild thing you make up your mind to do; you are a good com- 
rade, but your soul is lonelier than the cry of a curlew, and 
yesterday your voice was sadder than its cry.” 

“Please don’t,” she said. “I’m not sad or lonely. I have 
heaps of dear friends.” 

“I didn’t say you hadn’t friends. I also know that you are so 
much a slave to beauty, so wounded by sadness, that you dread 
any form of pain or suffering. You try to paddle in the shal- 
lows like the wading curlew, just because always you fear the 
depths. But we can never reach the heights until we have 
tasted of the depths. The curlew wades and dips his long bill 
in the shallows ; he avoids the depths. But the soul of the depths 
is in his cry.” 

“I don’t know what you are driving at. I told you I was 
sick of myself; I hate self-analysis. If the shallows are safer 
why not stick to them ? The curlew is a very wise bird.” 

“But you are to complete your service of doing what you don’t 
like — that is, talking about yourself to me. Your eyes are like 
the curlew’s voice; they are like our dreams, the expression of 
our hidden selves.” 

“ When are you going to sing?” She moved impatiently. 

“Not at all, unless I can sing.” 


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WITH OTHER EYES 


“But can’t you? Aren’t you in voice?” She spoke sincerely. 
She knew what he meant. His voice was like a harp which is 
acted on by the winds. She was Aeolus; she was keeping the 
wind which tuned his voice closed in the cave of her heart. 

“I told you that I couldn’t sing to order, not even for you. 
There is something uncanny about my voice; it treats me as it 
likes. If you have offended it in any way, it won’t sing for you.” 

“You are very personal to-day.” 

“Because I feel very personal. Don’t you?” 

“What do you mean by feeling personal?” 

“I mean that I am so glad to see you again that only person- 
alities matter, personalities about ourselves, principally about 
you. I don’t care if it is blowing a gale outside, or raining cats 
and dogs; even the war is forgotten.” He laughed. “I don’t 
even care about the aliens being crushed to suffocation in the 
tube railways. I only really care about enjoying the hour we 
have together.” 

“Aren’t we going to enjoy ourselves?” 

“I am, if you will say that you are a bit glad to be back.” 

“Of course we are going to enjoy ourselves, for in a way I am 
glad to be back.” 

“Then be your old self and I’ll sing my very best to you, 
Such as it is, you can make my voice good or bad; it must have 
sympathy.” 

“You speak as if we had known each other for ages, as if 
I had created your voice, as if you had never sung before you 
met me!” 

“I have known you forever, and I felt as if you had been 
away for more than four years, it was so horribly dull without 
you. Won’t you leave it at that?” 

He spread out the song which he had brought to sing to her, 
rolling it the reverse way to force it out of the coil into which it 
was curled. His eyes were fixed on the white cylinder. While 
he flattened out the music, Evangeline pulled off her left glove. 
Then he balanced himself comfortably on his crutches and 
against a chair. He was ready to sing. 

She had played two bars of the accompaniment before he 
looked from the music to her hands. As his eyes dropped to 
the keyboard, Allan’s engagement-ring caught the light and 
declared itself unmistakably. 


WITH OTHER EYES 


293 


Evengeline felt him tremble, his crutches crunched against 
the floor. Then instantly he balanced himself more firmly and 
stood bravely erect. 

With chilled flesh Evangeline played the prelude through in 
perfect silence. When she had finished it she nodded approv- 
ingly; she did not speak or raise her eyes. She must play the 
song first right through to the end before he sang it. She read 
music easily and was a sympathetic accompanist. 

To-day, with the knowledge that Hugh’s eyes were fixed on 
Allan’s new ring, that he had felt the blow which she’ had been 
sure it would give him, it took fine self-control and concentra- 
tion to keep her attention on the music, to interpret its meaning. 
When she came to the end of it, she quickly turned back to the 
beginning of the song and looked up at Hugh. Her eyes were 
haunted, appealing. He w*is standing silently by her side. His 
face was white, and he looked ill. 

“I think I can manage it now,” she said. “Will you try it?” 

Her voice was not her own. It had lost its appealing note. 
Her eyes avoided his. Without waiting for his answer, she 
began the accompaniment. 

Hugh sang one verse — or rather, he tried to sing it. It was 
a pathetic performance. He began the second verse and sud- 
denly stopped. He had no voice, only a poor little cracked sub- 
stitute for one. A mocking cackle or choke had followed his 
last note. It made Evangeline’s heart stand still. He turned on 
his crutches, swinging himself further away from the piano. 

“I can’t sing to-day,” he said. “You hear for yourself I can’t. 
I told you what might happen.” 

Evangeline’s lips trembled. She was on the verge of crying. 
His collapse was so unexpected. 

“Why not?” she asked. “You wanted to sing a moment ago — 
you said you could.” 

“You know why I can’t sing,” he said, “you know only too 
well.” 

Evangeline lied. “Indeed I don’t, and I want you to sing. 
Do let me hear this song.” 

“ ‘They required of us mirth,’ ” he said. “Do you remember 
what the answer was to the Babylonians when they said to their 
captives, ‘Sing us one of the songs of Zion’? The unhappy 


294 


WITH OTHER EYES 


Israelites replied, ‘How shall we sing the Lord’s Song in a 
strange land?’ ” 

“You are too cryptic, and I don’t know my Psalms or my 
Bible.” 

“You should read the Bible,” he said. “It is a fine book, 
awfully modern and not ashamed of human nature. Like the 
Jews, I can’t sing songs of Zion in a strange land.” 

“You must be more explicit. A quarter of an hour ago this 
was not a strange land, you were not in Babylon.” 

“No, I was in the Promised Land! My voice was tuned to 
the fairness of Zion, to the songs of gladness.” 

Evangeline began strumming the air. “I can’t follow you. 
Your conversation proves that you don’t know me — I can’t 
understand you.” 

“Don’t!” he said imperatively. “I can never sing that song.” 
He put his hand in front of the music. “Don’t play it.” 

She lifted her hands from the keyboard and clasped them in 
front of her. Her face was firm and unbending; never was 
her free spirit wilder. 

“Very well. If I can’t hear the song, I’d better go. That 
was all I came for; that was the only thing I was glad to be back 
for. It was not you, it was your voice.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me about your engagement?” he asked 
brutally. “Why did you leave me to find it out ? Why were you 
such a shocking coward?” 

Evangeline was stunned. His daring thrilled her; it gave her 
to him more completely than the tenderest love could have done. 
With trembling fingers she strummed out the tune of the song. 

“Wasn’t it beastly cruel?” he said, “rather unnecessary? Un- 
pleasant things can’t always be shelved, pushed aside. Couldn’t 
you have left the shallows for once, just to have saved me this?” 

“I didn’t mean it ... I had no opportunity ... I 
. . . I . . .” She halted. 

“You mean you disliked hurting me,” he said, “so you hurt 
my voice instead?” 

“Oh no! It will come back! How absurd! Perhaps you 
are tired. ... I thought you looked ill . . . say it will 

come back soon !” 

“I don’t know. How can I sing songs of Zion in a strange 


WITH OTHER EYES 295 

land ? But it really doesn’t matter. It was only you I cared to 
sing to. You won’t care now, so I don’t care.” 

“But why? Don’t say that. Of course it matters. Please 
don’t blame me! I didn’t know . . . how could I tell?” 

“Ah,” he said, “don’t lie! Leave me your truth, if you lacked 
courage!” 

“I mean ... we were friends, we can be friends still. 
That is what mattered ! There was nothing else, there never was 
anything else.” 

“There was everything else, of which there is nothing now. 
I never hoped, I never questioned, I never looked beyond the 
present. But I knew there was everything, and now there is 
nothing . . . not even the voice which you imagined could 

sing to you under any sort of conditions and circumstances.” 

“Of course your voice is all right . . . perhaps the sur- 

prise affected it. No-one ever heard of a voice being spoilt in 
that way.” 

“Some day, if I forget thee, O Jerusalem, I may sing songs 
of Zion in a strange land.” 

Evangeline rose from the piano. His words were horribly 
cruel. 

“Please tell me about it,” he said. “Is it . . .” he paused. 
“It will be kinder to tell me everything.” 

“There is so little to tell. . . . He is an old friend . . . 
he has been fond of me for a long time.” 

Their eyes met. Evangeline’s were anguished. A sudden idea 
came to Hugh. 

“Is it,” he said haltingly, “is it the friend who had the acci- 
dent?” 

“Yes, Allan Fairclough, my mother’s stepson.” She looked 
up defiantly; she would not be ashamed of her lover. But 
unable to bear the pain in Hugh’s eyes, she dropped her own 
quickly. Something had changed his expression; something 
about him now softened her almost to tears. “We loved each 
other four years ago — before the war.” 

“And you are very happy ?” 

“Yes, very.” Evangeline visualized her happiness of exalta- 
tion. Nothing like it or approaching to it had ever been hers 
before or since; she was able to speak feelingly. 


296 


WITH OTHER EYES 


‘‘Then I must congratulate you,” he said. “I wish you the 
same happiness always.” 

“Thank you,” Evangeline said lamely; his words stung her. 

“Is the date of your marriage fixed?” 

“Oh no!” The words came like a protest, a quick, eager pro- 
test against his daring to shorten the term of her liberty. The 
anguish in her voice echoed in both their ears; it filled the si- 
lence; it told Hugh all that her defiant looks and tightened lips 
had held back. It gave her secret away completely. Instinc- 
tively they both realized it. “Allan is still undergoing treat- 
ment . . . nothing is settled . . . there is plenty of time.” 

“Was he badly wounded? I forget.” 

“He was not at the front . . . that was the cruel part of it. 
I told you all about it.” 

“I see.” 

“It happened just before he was called up.” 

“What happened?” For the life of him Hugh could not 
resist the torture the whole conversation was inflicting upon 
himself and upon the nerve-racked girl in front of him. He had 
to hear it all and be done with it ; he had to probe the nakedness 
of her love. 

“He was at an aerodrome. A propeller caught him as he 
passed it. He was too close. I thought I told you all about it.” 

“And what did it do to him? If you told me I have for- 
gotten. He was not of the same importance at the time you 
told me.” 

“He has no right hand. He was an ear-specialist.” 

“I am ambidextrous. What a pity it wasn’t me!” 

“What does that big word mean?” 

He laughed boyishly. It was so like Evangeline to pretend 
that she did not know the meaning of it. 

“I can use my left hand just as easily as I can my right. It. 
makes no difference to me which I write with or play games 
with.” 

“How useful! Allan can’t. His career is ruined, of course.” 

“Unfortunately I lost my right foot instead of my right hand.” 

“Oh,” she cried, “don’t say that! One hand is hateful! 
Having only one foot matters far less . . . it is really almost 
nothing. Having only one hand . . .” she shivered, and then 
shamedly and guiltily she blushed. But her confession was 


WITH OTHER EYES 


297 


made. One hand was hateful ! Of course it was hateful. Two 
hands to clasp with, two hands to hold with, to enter into the 
love’s ways with as fondly as two lips. . . . But she must 
not say it; poor Allan had not lips to kiss with. Hugh’s lips 
were young and fresh; Allan’s were half-imprisoned by his hate- 
ful mask. Hugh must never know that the left side of Allan’s 
mouth was drawn and tom, far better concealed and unkissed. 

“I believe you’re right,” he said. “I think I am lucky, but 
if your friend got off with the loss of one hand, he was lucky 
too, when you think of the evolutions of a propeller!” 

“Oh, but he didn’t!” Evangeline’s words rushed from her 
lips. “Allan’s face was injured. He has lost the use of one 
eye, as well as his right hand.” Her wild, haunted eyes braved 
Hugh’s. As she gazed at him, a revulsion of feeling changed 
Hugh’s passions, devastated him. Noises sang in his ears; a 
throbbing like the sensation of steaming water poured on tender 
skin hurt his physical body. The next moment a flood of exalta- 
tion filled him. He could have broken into a wild and glorious 
song, a song of Zion, a song of deliverance. 

His spirit was no longer in the wilderness. He was beholding 
Jerusalem. His voice had not forgotten its cunning; the harp 
which he had hung upon the willows was tuned and ready for 
his thanksgiving, thanksgiving that his beloved’s heart had not 
gone with her gift of sacrifice, thanksgiving that she was a 
thousand times more wonderful than all his dreams in Flanders 
had revealed her to him. She was the fairest and bravest among 
women. Out of pity, and from the tenderness of her heart, she 
was going to marry this disfigured man; she was sacrificing 
herself to atone for the small part she had played in the tragedy 
of his accident. This fine act of self-sacrifice was to be the 
greatest of the great wild heroic things which he had told her 
that her nature would rise to, one of the headlong things which 
her pity for the suffering of others would drive her to do. 

A passionate relief strengthened him, a glorious pride in the 
girl who stood despairingly before him filled his lungs with the 
desire to sing. It was Hugh’s conscious expression of his 
sudden understanding of her engagement. 

In his subconscious self there was a hellish satisfaction, a 
ghoulish feeding on his rival’s pitiful engagement. On the girl’s 
part it was empty of love; it was barren of passion. Of Love’s 


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WITH OTHER EYES 

bewilderment it held nothing. There had even been a horror of 
his one hand, a haunted shrinking from his disfigured face. 

This vindictive enjoyment would have made Hugh hideous 
in his own eyes had he realized it. Its silent invasion of his 
lower self was undreamed of by the higher man. The loss of 
one foot scarcely mattered, so Evangeline had said — the loss 
that was his. She had said it unthinkingly. The loss of a 
hand was hateful. She had been afraid to tell him of her 
engagement! She had allowed him to find it out. If she had 
loved Allan F airclough, she would have told him of it naturally 
and happily, for love is proud of its conquest, and a fine 
woman is ever proud of her surrender. His wild fireweed of 
the Grand Pre meadows was still untamed; she was still the 
captain of her soul. She had made no sweet surrender. She 
had merely conferred an act of charity on a victim of mis- 
chance. Her engagement ceased to matter, since her love was 
still ungiven. Jealousy as cruel as the grave made Hugh’s 
mind as hideous as Allan’s face. The mind can work in its 
own or in God’s mysterious way, even while the lip-service of the 
outward man plays an opposite and important part. Hugh 
had expressed to Evangeline his sympathy and regret for Allan’s 
horrible accident; he had appeared to her singularly sensitive 
to his affliction. 

Evangeline had accepted his congratulations quietly and with 
considerable dignity. His impersonal tone strengthened her self 
control. 

“His is such a broken life,” she said, “so different from what 
he had planned.” 

“Hundreds of men are in the same position— professions 
ruined, businesses gone to pot, comfortable homes broken up for 
ever,” he said. 

“I know, but that really doesn’t make one’s own tragedy any 
less awful, does it? — any easier to bear? To be one of ten 
thousand isn’t any compensation for an eye and a hand. It 
heightens the tragedy, I think.” 

“You are going to turn his tragedy into a romance.” 

“If there is happiness left in the world for us, it may come 
through trying to make others less unhappy.” 

“Forgive me for being so boorish,” he said quickly. “I didn’t 
mean to be, I didn’t understand. Will you please play the song 


WITH OTHER EYES 299 

again, and let me try if I can sing it? Let me wipe out all my 
ill-humour !” 

She noticed the note of renewed vitality in his voice, the return 
of his youthful eagerness to please. He looked self-confident, 
happy. Her conscience pricked her. He had imagined things 
which she had not said. Why had he changed ? 

She seated herself at the piano and he sang the song. When 
he had finished, she swung herself round on the piano-stool with 
her back carefully turned to him. She rose abruptly and fled 
from the room. He had not seen her face; he had not looked 
at her while he was singing. 

When the door behind her shut, Hugh seated himself on the 
piano-stool which she had vacated. His crutches fell to the 
ground; he had need of his arms to bury his head in. Shame 
and delight fought for dominance. Love waved its banner of 
victory, shame retreated. 

He knew that he had sung better than he had ever sung before. 
He knew that it was a song of triumph. He knew that Evan- 
geline had fled for the guarding of her honour. His song had 
been devoid of honour; it had had nothing to do with sacrifice; 
it had been scornful of all but love’s urgency and love’s desire. 

He remained lost to his surroundings. He had given vent 
to his love in the manner in which he could best express it. Had 
it been fair and just of him to do so? Was it playing the game, 
either with Evangeline or with the absent man? His own love 
for Evangeline was doubled; it had become an actual living 
thing when he heard of the deed which she was prepared to do. 
Had he made it any easier for her to do it? Had he not taken 
an unfair advantage of her? Her sudden flight, her evident 
wish to hide her face from him, not to let him see what she felt, 
not to shame the absent man, had told him all he needed to 
know. ’ If she did not love him — though it was a vain thought, 
truly, for a penniless curate — she had behaved as if she did. 
And if she did not yet feel certain of her love, he was very 
certain of her lack of a lover’s love and passion for the man she 
was going to marry. 

The song had shown her the barrenness of her love for Allan. 
It had revealed to her the fact which she had tried to ignore — 
that she herself was capable of feeling all that the song ex- 
pressed. Was her lack of love for Allan Fairclough alone 


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accountable for her flight? Was she conscious of the new and 
beautiful sense of danger which they felt in one another’s com- 
pany, this quickened consciousness of each other’s nearness, this 
miserable happiness which is inseparable from love? 

Nothing of these feelings had been theirs between them before 
she went away. She had brought them all back with her. She 
had brought them in full flower and planted them in their garden 
of content. 

* * * * * * 

It was supper-hour before Hugh left his seat in front of the 
piano. The reaction which he was bound to feel had not yet 
set in. He scarcely cared a rap that on her left hand flashed 
the ring which bound her to another man. He was in the mood 
to care for nothing in the wide world but the passion in her 
eyes, and the sweetness of her scarlet lips. Her haunted eyes 
held his happiness and Allan’s tragedy. 

Thus the wine of triumph throbbed in his veins. If he had 
taken her in his arms at the end of the song, what would have 
happened? He would not answer the vain thought. Things 
were better, more supreme, as they were — the uncertain certainty, 
the bitter-sweet, the unsatisfied desire. 

Hugh was temperamental as all artists are. In the gloaming 
of this Scottish spring he scarcely belonged to earth; his one 
foot never trod the ground. His love for Evangeline was tre- 
mendously human, but in his quality of love there was the 
artist’s spiritual visualizing of love. For. it is not the most 
faithful lover who loves the most spiritually; it is not the do- 
mesticated mate, who takes unto himself habits and a wife, who 
sees the beauty of passion, the poetry of love’s consummation. 

Hugh loved Evangeline and with his love he offered her the 
spiritual passion of a nature which, with many of the failings 
of an artist, has the artist’s abhorrence of unloveliness in dreams 
and things. 

His love was as reckless of the future as Evangeline had 
desired Allan’s to be in the days when the world knew not war. 
It was reckless because until now he had desired nothing more 
than that his days in the great garden should hold Evangeline. 

“Violet-crowned, pure, sweet, smiling Evangeline.” That was 
how Alcaeus had described Sappho. That is how he thought of 


WITH OTHER EYES 301 

• 

Evangeline. How often he had said the haunting lines to him- 
self in Flanders! 

“Violet-crowned, pure, sweet, smiling Evangeline !” 
****** 

Violet-crowned Evangeline was at that moment sending in her 
resignation as an unpaid worker at Lincluden. 

A fine drop from the blue for Mr. Hugh when he learnt what 
her slowly-written note contained ! 


CHAPTER XII 


While the affairs of Evangeline have been usurping the lime- 
light, the story of Alex Hemingway has been advancing step 
by step to the strange fulfilment of her destiny. 

When Evangeline left London for Glastonbury, Alex set 
about making preparations for her journey North for her visit 
to her husband. Her boarding-house was now so well estab- 
lished, and the war had changed the habits of her boarders so 
greatly to her advantage, that it was not the impossible thing 
it would have been in pre-war days to leave her two houses in 
charge of her willing servants and to luck. 

She arrived at the officers’ convalescent home where Larry 
Was waiting for her on a beautiful but stormy afternoon. 

At the door of the handsome country house which had been 
converted into a convalescent home for officers, Alex was told 
that Major Hemingway was in the garden. One of the nurses 
said that she would take her to him. 

Alex was looking very pretty — and what was still better, 
effective and picturesque. Remembering Larry’s appreciation of 
fine feathers and his critical eye for a well-turned-out woman, 
she had lived up to the part ; she looked no boarding-house land- 
lady. Her hair, which once he had so loved, shone as brightly 
and healthily as the copper beech on the lawn. Her eyes, which 
were made for tears, and her lips, which were made for love — 
Larry had first said the words to her — lacked little of their old 
beauty. She was excited, nervous. It was a dramatic moment. 
Her pride had made her anxious to do justice to herself — to do 
more, to do justice to her independence, to her unwifely flight 
from matrimonial bondage. 

The undefinable qualities which make a woman desirable 
and exciting to a man’s senses, had always been Alex’s. Even 
in her exhausted days, they had not deserted her. Whenever 
she chose to exert her charms, she never failed to captivate 
even her own sex. As she had determined that she would take 

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303 


Larry back, she was equally determined that he should want to 
come; he should recognize what other men recognized and 
desired in her. She was not going to take back a bored and 
condescending wreck, who would accept her sacrifice as a matter 
of course. Her animation was becoming; the nurse admired her 
enormously. 

When she arrived at the spot where Larry was pacing up and 
down a sunny walk in an obvious state of agitation and 
nervous expectancy, all her prearranged plans and ideas fell from 
her. She forgot herself, and her rehearsed meeting, for there 
before her was the old Larry, the young and amazingly hand- 
some Larry, the lover who had meant more to her and been to 
her what no other man could ever be. Instead of the war hav- 
ing aged him, it seemed to have rejuvenated him. It had 
washed away all traces of carelessness and mental indolence. 

Before the nurse their greeting had to be what publicity per- 
mitted, nothing more. The nurse was totally ignorant of the 
true situation. As he came to meet her, he lost nothing in 
Alex’s eyes by his embarrassment and humility. 

When the nurse left them Larry turned to his wife and said, 
“It was most awfully good of you to come, Alex.” 

Alex thought it was good of her to come, but what could 
she say? 

“You had no need to,” he said. “I never expected you to.” 

“You have been fighting; you were wounded. Besides, the 
war has changed everything, all of us. I had to come.” 

“It was most awfully good of you.” He paused, and then 
said apologetically, “Do you mind telling me . ^ . how the 
kiddie is?” 

“You will soon see him. He’s splendid! HeV |)een at 
school for some time — he’s quite a boy now.” 

“How the time has passed!” he said nervously. “A lifetime 
seems ^o have been gobbled up by the war.” He was gazing at 
his beautiful wife, at the transformation which had taken place 
in the worn-out, faded girl of Canada. If he had been account- 
able for her past condition, it was splendid of her to come. 

“When did you join up?” Alex asked. She was feeling em- 
barrassed by his scrutiny. They both found it hard to be 
natural. 

“In September, 1914.” 


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“Oh, the first year!” Her eyes thanked him. 

He smiled at her in his old irresistible way, and Alex felt 
it. She felt as if some strong wine was suddenly affecting her 
veins. 

“You are a wonderful person,” he said. “You don’t look 
a day older than you did when I first saw you — really you 
don’t.” 

“Oh, Larry, not a day older, when I’m as old as the things 
before the beginning of days!” 

“Canada killed your youth; but you’ve got it back again — 
completely. I never saw such a marvellous change in any- 
one.” 

“I feel stronger.” They were talking brokenly, distantly. 
Her reason for coming had not in the least explained itself. 
She began trying to get nearer to the subject by telling him 
what she had been doing, how she had earned her living, how 
well her business had succeeded. 

“It is quite a good going concern now,” she said proudly. 
“It gives us a home, and it will grow. I can’t take in nearly 
all the applicants I have for rooms.” She paused, and then 
said nervously, almost apologetically, “You see, Larry, I had 
to do it. Tony had to be thought of. We were drifting to 
absolute poverty.” 

“I know,” he said, “I have never blamed you. I’m a rotter 
* — you did what was wisest and best. I was at my wit’s end 
when the war broke out; I’d have dragged you down.” 

“And now you are a major.” 

“I rejoined my old Regiment. It’s a wonderful life — I ought 
never to have left it! I never wanted to.” 

Alex blushed. “You left it because you wanted to marry 
and we thought we were going to make a fortune in looking 
for moths in the forests of the Limberlost!” 

“I left it because it was all ‘swank’ on my parents’ part that 
put me into a Regiment they couldn’t afford to keep me in 
decently. The war has changed all that; I can afford it now.” 
He looked at his empty sleeve. “Or I could!” he said bitterly. 

Alex looked at his arm. He saw her effort for self-control. 

“Have you made any plans? Will they do anything for 
you — the Government, I mean?” 

“Who knows?” He spoke casually, but his words did not 


WITH OTHER EYES 305 

hide what Alex detected, his utter loneliness. “I shall get along 
on my right arm pension.” 

“Larry,” she said nervously, “a home is waiting for you. 
Tony is expecting you. Will you come?” 

He stopped his rapid walking. They had been doing a sort 
of quarter-deck exercise together in the sun. 

“You can’t mean it?” he said. “You don’t want me back? 
I never meant to bother you, I assure you I won’t!” 

“I came to invite you. I told Tony that his father was 
wounded, that he had been found in the war. He has been 
quite satisfied with the fact that you were lost out big-game 
shooting.” 

“I treated you too damned badly! You have no need to do 
this. I’m probably no better than I was, although I’ve seen 
enough to change any man.” 

“I’m sure you have, if you’ve been in it since 1914. You 
deserve a good home.” 

“Does the leopard change its spots? As your husband, what 
shall I be again?” He looked at her tenderly. “I spoilt your 
life once, Kiddie; don’t give me the chance of doing it again.” 

The old name, the old quality in his voice, brought tears to 
Alex’s eyes. The neglected woman, her blistered hands, her 
weary body, were forgotten. Here was the old Larry calling her 
“Kiddie.” He was her husband; she had lain by his side; she 
had borne him a son. Above all, greater than all, he had bled 
for England. He had endured those years of the war-hell for 
England. Their intimacy was reborn; it could never be 
obliterated. 

“You won’t spoil it, Larry,” she said quickly. The protest 
came on the top of his words. “You won’t, really, because I 
am different. I have learnt so much, the war hasn’t left even me 
the same.” 

“You are just the same,” he said, “wonderfully the same. 
For you the years seem to have rolled back. And, honestly, if 
I treated you like a cur, I never excused myself; I never blinded 
myself to the fact that you were what you are — the bravest 
woman I ever met, and the loyallest. What a beast I was !” He 
looked at her admiringly. 

“Oh, Larry, I was such a young fool, so disappointed and 
unhappy because married life was real and not what I dreamed 


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it would be — always living with an adoring lover. I was in- 
tolerant of the lover turned into a husband.” 

“You had to put up with far more than that. Have you 
been happy without me?” He never for one moment thought 
of Alex as anything but faithful to him. A very definite aura 
of sexual faithfulness, tenacity, which perhaps Alex scarcely 
merited, assured him of this fact. 

“Yes, Larry, extraordinarily happy, because I was interested 
and successful, successful beyond all my hopes, and because 
the daring thing I did seemed to me justified. I was respon- 
sible for Tony’s life; I would not and could not have it ruined.” 

“It was justified. And if you are happy, why should I re- 
turn?” 

“Because I want you. Now that I know you are here, and 
that you have fought for my home and Tony’s, I want you 
back. I really do. Our home will never be the same again, 
unless you come to it — that is to say, if you want to.” 

Neither of them spoke. The wild northern clouds were scud- 
ding across the sky, covering and uncovering stretches of azure 
blue, as they travelled with the stiff breeze. Silently the hus- 
band and wife watched the splendid masses of grey-white clouds 
drift together and form a huge rugged mountain in the sky. 

Alex felt that their silence might last forever. She turned her 
eyes from the cloud mountains in the deep blue above to the 
man at her side. His eyes sought hers. They loved her. A 
swift surging passion quickened her blood; it tore through her 
veins. The wonderful old days of her love were with her; 
they were but yesterday. The log-hut days had receded; they 
were of little moment. 

“Do you want to come, Larry? Do you want your home 
and your son?” Alex felt both ashamed and afraid of her- 
self, afraid of the sex influence which Larry alone had over her. 

“It is best to be plain with you,” he said. “You deserve 
it. The truth is, I want you madly.” He turned to her quickly. 
“Believe it or not — it’s hard for any woman to understand — 
but I have been faithful to you, after a manner, insomuch that 
you have always been my ideal, my woman. I repeatedly abused 
my love for you ; I even tried to persuade myself that I was in- 
different to you. I knew it was a lie; I knew that the small soul 
I possessed clung to you, was desolate without you. Yet know- 


WITH OTHER EYES 307 

ing all this, I never denied my lower nature its satisfaction. I 
was born like that.” 

Alex’s heart knew the truth of his statement. She knew 
that men with the temperament of Larry can be faithfully-un- 
faithful. They can love their wives, while they deny them 
comforts to bestow luxuries on bought women. She was con- 
scious that in his own manner he had been faithful to her. He 
had spoken the truth. She had possessed the spiritual side, the 
beauty of his passion; they had been hers only. His journeyings 
after other women, fresher and more amusing than herself, had 
caused her little jealousy. They had been mere excursions, the 
youthful hankering after strange company, untrodden ground. 
After her marriage, when she had settled down to the deeper 
knowledge of things, these shortcomings in his character, his 
lack of moral standpoint, his desire for change, his abhorrence 
of matrimonial ennui, seemed more his inherited failings than his 
own fault. Larry was made like that; he saw and felt like that. 
His sins were not sins against the Holy Ghost. He saw more 
beauty in the sins of commission than in the Christian virtue 
of renunciation. Renunciation was waste, hypocrisy, the stay- 
ing of youth, the perversion of nature. 

“I want you madly.” The words were spoken with a ghastly 
earnestness. They vibrated through Alex. “Can I come back 
to you under these circumstances ? Or do you mean that I must 
be a stranger in your house, a free boarder?” He spoke bitterly. 
“Mind you, I deserve nothing more — not so much!” He looked 
at her. “But you make me feel damnably human — you must 
consider that fact.” 

He paused. Alex was incapable of thought. Events had 
taken such a strange turn. 

“You are very beautiful,” he said. “No, don’t interrupt what 
I must say. You are beautiful again, and you offer me a home! 
Keep me well outside it, treat me as I deserve to be treated, but 
don’t invite me to your home and then expect me to live in it as 
a stranger.” His eyes held no hope. Women, not men, think 
these domestic situations possible ! 

His wife laid her two hands on his breast and spoke into his 
eyes. 

“Larry, I came to offer you a wife as well as a home. Let 
us begin all over again, call nothing anyone’s fault, scrap the 


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whole business/’ Her soul was in her demand. She was 
superbly feminine, virtuously sensual. Her bright head was 
pressed to his coat, her lips kissed his empty sleeve, the token 
of his sacrifice to humanity. It made him infinitely worthy of 
her surrender. 

He did not raise her head. Her kisses were sacred; they 
were her tribute to the offering which he had laid on the altar 
of war. He doubted still if as a man, apart from his worth as 
a soldier, she could ever have forgiven him. 

Alex glanced up. “Don’t try to settle things by words, Larry. 
We just at last understand each other! You haven’t told me 
anything about your years in France, of how you got your 
wound. Would you rather not?” 

Her thoughts flew to Franklin Gibson. How completely 
she had forgotten him until now — the strong man, the man who 
had made her return to her husband ! Something self-depreciat- 
ing and guilty made her averse to dwelling on his memory. In 
her guilt there was the consciousness that never for one moment 
had he roused in her anything like the feeling which she now 
had for Larry, and yet she had thought she cared for him. Even 
at Tregaron on that eventful morning when he gave her the pearl 
locket, and the delightful assurance came to her that he loved 
her, she knew that she did not really love him. She had only 
loved his love for her; her passion had only been roused by the 
knowledge of his intense and devout feeling for her. Away 
from him, she was away from his love, away from all but her 
appreciation and her gratitude for his passion and manly tender- 
ness to her. It was his goodness and his admiration for her- 
self that she treasured. It had helped her spiritually; the sense 
of rest and security which his presence always gave her had 
made her visualize wifehood with him as the perfection of peace. 

With Larry she felt herself very far from all such perfection 
of peace. He was her man. As her lover she knew that his 
virtues and moral imperfections and failings had gone un- 
questioned. It was the man himself she loved. His old charm 
for her echoed in her senses in a hundred ways. It was a charm 
which Franklin with all his virtues completely lacked. It was 
that charm which — God knows why — often belongs to the least 
deserving and is denied the wholly worthy. As she had once 
Loved Larry, she could love him again, and the knowledge of 


WITH OTHER EYES 


309 


it shamed her while she thought of F ranklin. He had imagined 
that she was going to make a sacrifice, obey the higher dictates 
of her conscience. She found herself doing nothing of the kind. 
It was almost immoral. It certainly was, from the spiritual 
truth of the thing. 

When Alex, for convention’s sake and to avoid undue ex- 
citement, had asked Larry if he would rather not tell her about 
his war experiences, he had evaded her question by telling her 
some trivialities. He made very little of his wound. Like all 
soldiers, he hated talking about himself. He did not know that 
Alex knew the very man who had saved his life. 

“We won’t talk about that episode, if you don’t mind,” he 
said, referring to his wound. “I was awfully lucky to have got 
off so cheaply.” 

Naturally Alex did not refer to it again. She appreciated his 
wish to make very little of the loss of his arm when he was 
luckier than twenty thousand others. 

* * * * * ,/>* 

Alex had taken rooms in the village near the hospital. For 
a week she spent every morning and afternoon with Larry. 
He had on the occasion of their second meeting insisted upon 
her leaving the subject of his returning to her undecided until 
the eve of her departure, and even longer. It seemed wiser to 
do so. He recognized the spirit in which she had come to him; 
he wished her to feel more certain that her feeling for himself 
would permit of her carrying out her intentions with a human 
possibility of happiness for them both, and without spoiling her 
well-deserved independence. As there had never been any 
quarrelling or incompatibility of temper between them; as her 
leaving him had been for Tony’s sake; and, as she had said both 
to herself and to Franklin Gibson many times, if Larry had been 
well-off they might and probably would have been “happy ever 
after,” there was not so much to live down. There were no 
cruel, unforgettable words to erase from their souls. Cruelty 
had played no part in Alex’s determination to be free, if neglect 
can be distinguished from cruelty. 

Under these circumstances it was easier for them both to 
spend the days which they had together amiably and uncon- 
strainedly. Larry could always make himself a charming 
companion. He desired to be one now, for his wife’s beauty 


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and his sincere admiration for her, made him very proud and 
glad to please her. He was playing no part; he was not “suck- 
ing up,” to use Tony’s schoolboy phrase. He was simply try- 
ing to engage the attention and interests of a charming woman 
who, in her fresh attitude towards him and in her more developed 
womanhood, had the claim of a strange woman upon his senses. 
She excited and stimulated him; he wished to be at his best in 
her company. 


CHAPTER XIII 


It was on the afternoon of the last day but one of Alex’s visit 
that a curious incident happened, an incident which threw a 
light on much that Alex had not expected, an incident which 
affected in a purely feminine way her feelings for the man who, 
apart from the loss of his right arm, had during these days to- 
gether, appeared to her fairly fit and well. Larry had, it was 
true, persistently avoided and shrunk from talking about his 
personal experiences in France. Alex had learned day by day 
how carefully he avoided the subject, with the result that she 
knew very little about his adventures or about his life as a 
soldier. She admired his modesty, and remembered vividly his 
dislike of discussing unpleasant episodes. 

On this last afternoon they were walking together near a 
small farm which lay about a quarter of a mile from the hospital 
gates. They were talking interestedly and happily when quite 
suddenly two very fine black Berkshire pigs came running and 
grunting down the road towards them. They approached Alex 
and Larry with an ugly, small-eyed, all-seeing look. 

As it never entered Alex’s head to be afraid of the animals, 
she was astonished when Larry clutched hold of her and cried 
out in an agony of terror. When she looked at him, she saw 
that he was literally convulsed with horror. Two wild lions 
could not have frightened a timid woman any more than the 
pigs had frightened her husband., 

She was amazed at his pitiful condition, which instantly 
recalled to her the fact that he was an invalided soldier, and 
that the sister of his ward had warned her that he was still 
suffering from shell shock, a fact of which she had seen little 
evidence. 

She now realized that she had been deceived by his fine 
colour and bearing, that what the nurse had told her was true. 

Like a terrified child Larry clung to her. When one of the 
frightened animals brushed against him, he fainted and fell 

311 


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to the ground. The pigs were still behaving like fools, they 
angered the alarmed Alex to distraction. With a wild swoop 
of her arms and a shout, she drove them headlong down the 
road. 

The only thing to do was to drag Larry to the side of the 
road and restore him to consciousness. Then she would have 
to run to the hospital for help. The ugly animals had dis- 
appeared, she was relieved to think that they were out of sight. 

But alas! her husband’s recovery was no easy matter. A 
thousand fears seized her. Had she only found Larry to lose 
him? Would he never regain consciousness? Was he past re- 
storing? Had ever anyone been so long unconscious before? 
Could she leave him and go for more experienced help? She 
had done all that she could, but it was no good. He remained 
to all appearances a dead man. But, thank God, she had found 
him and forgiven him ! Thank God they were friends ! 

His unconscious state distanced him so infinitely from her 
that she felt that she must call to him in heaven. It had 
brought to her what death brings to wives who have loved 
their husbands, a complete blotting-out of all the wrongs and 
evils they have suffered at their hands. That revival of love 
which comes with death was Alex’s, while Larry, dead to her 
entreaties, lay under the pitiless sky. The old, dear, foolish 
days filled her anguished mind. With the marvellous rapidity 
of thought she saw in the unconscious man, the gay, ardent, 
compelling lover of her happiest days, the intrepid hunter, the 
brave soldier, the young father of her boy. 

With the force of despair, she thrust his head down again 
almost to the ground. She had tried this remedy before, but 
it had failed. As she kept his head doubled down for the 
second time, a slight tremor passed over his face; her watch- 
ful eyes saw it. This time he was responding to the only 
method she knew of restoring the fainting to consciousness. 
She lifted up his head to see if she was right, if he was at last 
showing any signs of life. His lips moved — or rather, they 
shook piteously. He was reviving, but so slightly, that to her 
anxious eyes he looked even worse than he had done while he 
was unconscious. 

She took his face in her hands and cried piteously to him 
to come back. “Don’t die, Larry! Tony wants you . . . 


WITH OTHER EYES 313 

I want you. We are to be lovers again, just as we were once. 
Oh, Larry, don’t die!” 

The unconscious man did not hear her words, but some- 
thing of her eagerness and her desire for him probably reached 
his subconscious-self. The superman, which had not been 
affected and rendered unconscious by the sight of two fat black 
pigs had heard the cry of the forlorn woman. His helplessness, 
as he lay in her arms, slowly returning to consciousness, aroused 
all the beauty and tenderness in Alex’s maternal nature. The 
man in her arms was dependent upon her; he was her child, 
her husband and a suffering soldier all in one. An unsuspected 
danger had attacked him, had showed its hideous head. A 
superb strength rose up in her, made her eager to fight it. As 
a mother, she was a primitve, combatant, defensive female. 
And Larry was at the moment more her lost and erring child 
given back to her than the husband from whom she had flown. 

As Larry, ably supported by her arm, dragged himself back 
to the hospital, he was exquisitely sure of her sympathy and 
understanding. It was so like Alex not to be in the least 
scornful, or even astonished, at his absurd display of broken 
nerves. It was so like her not to desire one single word of ex- 
planation. And for the very life of him he could not at the 
moment bring himself to tell her why he had behaved as he 
had done. His head was swimming; he was very tired, 
physically and mentally tired. He had lost confidence in him- 
self again; the old enemy nerves had mastered him. He felt 
sorely humiliated and a mere creature for pity in Alex’s eyes. 

When the nurse, to whom Alex briefly stated what had hap- 
pened, took Larry under her care, he said shamedly to Alex, “I 
was a silly ass — forgive me if you can.” 

“Forgive you, Larry? Don’t make me cry! There is nothing, 
dear, in the world to forgive! If I had been in France since 
1914 one white piglet coming amiably towards me would have 
been enough to send me crazy, let alone two horrible, grunting, 
hideous sows!” 

Larry shivered, and again the look of haunted terror came 
back into his eyes, the look which had astonished her before 
he fainted. The nurse shook her head at Alex, who had 
obviously stepped on thin ice, so she turned and left him with 
an assumed air of cheerfulness. 


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The next morning, when she was preparing him for the fact 
that she had come to say good-bye, that she had to return to 
London — that their temporary parting could not be postponed, 
as her business really needed her — he said nervously, “Did I 
disgust you horribly yesterday ?” 

“Oh, Larry, of course not! No one can account for the 
queer things which will affect nerves when they are rotten. Just 
think what yours have had to stand!” 

“I can account for it,” he said. “Will it bore you to listen 
to the reason?” 

“Of course not, but should you tell me? Isn’t it wiser to 
let things alone? I really quite understand. ... I didn’t 
think anything about it — it is just overstrained nerves.” 

“But I’d rather tell you,” he said. “I’d sleep better if I did. 
You can’t want to have a beastly coward back in your everyday 
life, Kiddie!” 

“You a coward? Don’t shame me, Larry — I’m so proud of 
you!” 

He looked at his wife. There was actually love in her eyes! 
There was so much of the girl Alex who had kept nothing 
back when she had given herself into his careless keeping, that 
he had to fight back the desire to kiss her quivering face and 
make love to her exquisite eyes. How often he had kissed 
them! How often he might have kissed them when his kisses 
were desired! 

“I was left for dead on no-man’s-land,” he said. He spoke 
in a meaningly cold, passionless way. “I had crawled into a 
shell-hole. I had to lie as still as a dead man for twelve hours, 
so still that if I had moved my wrist from under my temple I 
should have been shot instantly. The enemy were watching for 
the slightest movement amongst the dead. It’s odd how it’s the 
little things that always matter. I shall never forget the agony 
my wrist- watch caused me; for all those motionless hours it 
was pressing itself into my temple, just close to my eye.” He 
put his finger up to the place. 

Alex could only say, “You poor dear! You poor, poor 
dear!” 

“Don’t,” he said. “I only want to explain.” He took her 
proffered hand and held it in his, possessively, eagerly. His 
eyes fell on her wedding-ring. “You still wear it?” he said. 


315 


WITH OTHER EYES 

“Of course,” she said. She raised it to his lips. 

He kissed the ring, and then each soft finger-tip. He was 
still more afraid than sure of her. He had done so much to 
lose her, so little to gain her. 

“Well,” he went on, “when the enemy was convinced that 
we were all dead, or that no wounded there was worth their 
powder, they left us alone. I had hoped to endure until the 
R.A.M.C. found me in the shell-hole, but I couldn’t. The 
hawks and other beastly birds of prey which are always wait- 
ing to attack the helpless are bad enough; the R.A.M.C. have 
to keep shooting them off while they are rescuing the wounded. 
They are amazingly determined, and a horrible sight. But I 
had become used to them on the battle-fields. It was the com- 
ing of the pigs . . .” He paused, and shut his eyes. “They 
were such an unexpected horror. . . .” 

“Don’t, Larry! Please let’s talk of other things. This is 
awfully bad for you.” 

“Let me get it off my chest,” he said. “It’s absurd to mind 
so much, but I suppose I was very weak, just in the silly con- 
dition to receive some impression which becomes indelible. I 
think there must have been some farm not far off, for suddenly, 
and apparently from nowhere, a big horde of black pigs came 
amongst the dead and the dying. They began grunting and 
grovelling and routing about, throwing over corpses as they 
uproot turnips or anything else that is buried. There seemed 
to be scores of them, hungry, lean beasts. Their wee searching 
eyes, their monster snouts, came nearer and nearer. I couldn’t 
stand it. At the risk of being sniped and killed by a bullet, 
I crawled from my shell-hole. I was bleeding pretty badly, but 
I managed to get safely off no-man’s-land, crawling on my 
stomach all the way, and through a small wood and out into 
a road which ran above it. It was there that I was found. I 
don’t know any more, but ... my God, why can’t I forget 
it?” 

Alex was crying. 

“Don’t cry, Kiddie, please don’t! It was just one of those 
things that never Would have affected me if I had been in a 
less critical condition. I was used up, bleeding like a calf.” 

“Oh, Larry,” she said, still weeping, “it’s the most horrible 


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thing I ever heard of! I never imagined such things.” Her 
face was drenched with heavenly tears. 

“Dear Kiddie!” 

She looked up. Her eyes were proud, passionate, entreat- 
ing. He laid his lips on their wet lashes. 

“Oh, Fm so glad I’ve found you. I can never do enough 
for you! I want to spoil you for the rest of your life.” 

“May I come back, pigs and all? Can you do with such 
a fool? Heaven knows when I’ll be quite myself again — if I 
ever am!” 

“Yes, you will! I’ll nurse you until you are quite well again. 
Tony will be so proud of you. At school he has hated having 
no father.” She smiled. “He somehow knew that you weren’t 
properly dead, that I wasn’t properly a widow.” She held up 
her lips. “We never quarrelled, Larry; we have no hard, cruel 
words to forgive and forget. . . .” 

“Kiddie, I have so much to remember, so much that I must 
never forget! What if I disappoint you all over again? For 
although I did my bit at the front, I am nothing more or less 
than the Larry who was a failure.” 

“Aren’t you going to accept me?” Alex laughed. “Let us 
kiss, Larry, and be friends. Let us both say we are sorry and 
that we will be good.” 

“I could say anything,” he cried. “I always could, and at 
the time I always meant it!” 

Alex laughed gaily. “That is quite true, dear, but now you 
have done something, you have done more than I can ever 
hope to do!” 

As he kissed her lips, she realized that he was the only man 
who had any right to kiss them, not because he was her hus* 
band — that made no kiss right or holy — but because she knew 
that to no other man could she give the same kisses in return. 
Larry drew from her kisses and emotions which he alone 
could inspire. Custom had never dulled Alex’s response to 
his affection, as it had dulled her anguish at his neglect. She 
had always known that when he beckoned, she came; she had 
always known that she could only leave him for good when he 
was absent; a little tenderness, a soft appeal, and she was al- 
ways undone, always ready and eager to forgive. In her heart, 
from the moment she first saw him in the hospital grounds, she 


WITH OTHER EYES 


317 


knew that he had for her a charm which was indefinable, this 
man from whom she had fled to save herself and her child from 
degradation. For any other man her love could only be a cool, 
colourless thing; their love-making must always compare un- 
favourably with his. He was the master of her soul. 

****** 

Larry, who always seemed to Alex as if he had never grown 
up, was very old in his knowledge of woman. He loved his 
wife with a finer and higher love than he had ever felt for 
any other woman; he loved her in her splendid womanhood far 
more sincerely than in the early days when he had seen her all 
dewy from her convent, and instantly determined to marry her. 
He now desired nothing in the world so much as to return to her 
and to his son. 

So great was his desire that, knowing women as he did, he 
did not claim from Alex more love and caresses than she offered 
him. Often what is withheld is sweeter than what is given. 

His brief description of his night in France, when the corpse- 
routing pigs had been the last straw to his broken nerves, drew 
them much closer together. Her tears had spoken comfortingly 
to him; her proffered kiss had assured him that as her husband 
he would not be a stranger. 

Alex had reserved for their domestic future the story of his 
deliverance. She had no desire to complicate matters at present 
by telling him anything about Franklin Gibson. Larry was to 
come back to her; there could now be no doubt of that. She 
was not accepting him as, or expecting him to be perfect, a 
reformed character, or even a repentant husband who had turned 
over a new leaf. She was inviting him back because the ele- 
ments in her as a wife and mother desired his return, because 
all that he had suffered and done in France so greatly out- 
weighed the things which he had not done in Canada. He 
was the man whom she had loved and unquestionably could love 
again, the missing half of herself without which she must ever 
feel incomplete. Having- borne a son to him, she had become, 
while she was on this earth, a part of him. 

If she had married Franklin Gibson she could never have 
been a part of him, as indissolubly a part of him as she felt 
herself to be of Larry. She would have been married to one 


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WITH OTHER EYES 


man while she was bodily wedded to another. “With my body 
I thee wed.” These words had been inexpressibly true. 

sjc 3|e 5j« ifc 

When they were within a short time of their parting, which 
had already been discussed, Larry drew a letter from his pocket 
and said in a business-like way, “Did you know, Alex, that 
my cousin Algy was killed in action a month ago?” 

A questioning look came into Alex’s eyes, her thoughts 
travelled. “You mean . . . ?” 

“Algy who visited us before we went to Canada.” 

“Yes.” 

“You may have seen that his father was killed in the battle 
of the Somme?” 

Alex looked alarmed. “Then that means . . . ?” She 

hesitated nervously; the boy’s death was too sad to allow of her 
spontaneous remark. 

“It means that you are Lady Hemingway.” 

“Oh, Larry!” She laughed, nervously, as if it were in- 
credible. 

The baronetcy seemed a long way off when I married you, 
Kiddie.” He sighed. “Poor Algy! Three generations killed 
by the war! For the war killed my grandfather just as surely 
as it killed his son, and now his grandson.” 

“Poor Algy!” Alex repeated. “He was so brilliant, so good- 
looking, and so absolutely healthy! And only a boy, really!” 

“Yes, and so much more worthy of the title than his suc- 
cessor. It’s absurd, my being Sir Lawrence, without a penny 
to my name!” 

Alex laughed. “I can’t help laughing, Larry. Even in the 
tragedy of it there is something so comical in you being Sir 
Lawrence Hemingway and me Lady Hemingway! The board- 
ing-house mistress a titled lady!” 

“Three death duties in three years. You realize what that 
means?” 

“I hadn’t thought about the monetary part of it. I hadn’t 
got on to that yet. I suppose it means . . .” She paused. 

“That we shan’t have a penny to keep up the baronetcy on. 
It’s a mere empty title, and living will cost us more. Titles 
are an expense in themselves.” 

“But Tony . . . ?” Her eyes were alight. 


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WITH OTHER EYES 

“Yes,” Larry’s eyes responded, “the boy may live to enjoy 
what we never shall, if we husband things decently for him.” 

“Poor Algy!” Alex looked up; wonderful eyes gazed at 
Larry. “Is it wicked to feel what I do about it for Tony’s 
sake?” She gave a little sigh. “If it is, I can’t help it. I 
believe I’d sacrifice the world and this war to him.” 

“It’s only human,” he said, “it’s the only thing about it that 
I care a fig for. I left the child to fate. It has been a better 
father to him than I was.” 

“Being a baronet is going to make you awfully respectable, 
Larry.” She laughed softly. “I have often seen it before — an 
unexpected fortune makes almost a miser of a poor spendthrift; 
responsibility or a seat amongst the mighty often . . .” 

“Reforms a rake, Kiddie! Let’s hope it will, for your sake.” 

“Don’t!” she cried imperatively. “You never were a rake — 
I won’t have that said ! I have never even thought it, of Tony’s 
father.” 

“All right. Only a bit of a blighter?” 

They were silent for some moments; both were immersed in 
thought. 

“Isn’t it really absurd, the turning of the wheel, the work- 
ings of the war? We ought never to be surprised; it is only 
the expected that never happens.” 

Alex looked at her watch. “I must go,” she said, regret- 
fully, “and we have so much to talk about, to arrange together. 
Why on earth didn’t you tell me this before?” She looked 
happily bewildered; the tragedy of the death of her husband’s 
cousin was swallowed up in the astounding fact that her son, 
her adorable Tony, would one day occupy a position in the 
world which had been her people’s. 

Larry laughed happily. “Honestly, I didn’t think of it — 
I suppose because I never dreamed you cared much for that 
sort of thing. You never were a snob, and I’m as poor as ever.” 

“Heaven defend me from being a snob! But I’m a mother. 
I think that is all I was ever meant to be.” 

“We had so much more to say about things which seemed 
to me to matter far more.” 

“I know there is so much to talk about. I could go on 
chattering for hours without stopping. But I really must go.” 

Their parting was hurried; it had to be. What they said to 


320 


WITH OTHER EYES 


each other does not matter. It held little meaning in barren 
words. It was a parting which almost purged Alex’s memory 
of the log-hut days, the dreary days of her injured vanity. 

The war had given Larry a new dignity. Notwithstanding all 
that he had been, he was now vastly her superior. Her thoughts 
knelt to him; her conpassion was replete with tenderness. 
Even though he had truly said that because he had been a 
soldier in France — and she knew that others could add “a 
brave one”— there was no reason why he should be necessarily 
a better husband. Bad husbands are often brilliant soldiers; 
good husbands too often prove incompetent leaders. Yet be 
these truths ever so true, Larry was different now. Her eyes 
saw him differently. She would always remember that he had 
done things which she honoured, that he had done things which 
she could never, never do. He had fought for England, offered 
up his life in the cause of humanity. 

Her lips smiled with the pleasure it gave her, his master- 
ship. His high reinstatement in her senses made life very 
gracious. 


CHAPTER XIV 


That same day, when Evangeline met Alex, who had come to 
stay the night with her before travelling to London the next 
day, she noticed at once a subtle change in her friend. Her 
senses seemed on fire; she was lit up with an inward flame. 

Evangeline had been expecting to meet a brave, resolute 
Alex, a suffering jvoman determined to make the best of a bad 
job; a war- wife, returning to the straight and narrow path of 
matrimonial ennui. Instead of which, a flushed and very 
beautiful Alex greeted her with a happy smile. 

She was all that Franklin had declared that she could be 
when the work which he had longed to carry out was completed. 
Evangeline had never seen her so well-dressed before, or so 
carefully attentive to details. 

They kissed affectionately. They were nervously glad to see 
each other; yet as soon as their greeting was over, they lapsed 
into silence. They looked at each other with questioning, eager 
eyes. Neither of them could talk of things which did not mat- 
ter; it was difficult to begin upon things which did. 

Suddenly Evangeline bent forward and, with her face thrust 
nearer to Alex’s, their eyes still on each other’s, she said 
seriously : 

“My dear, you are in love. And you are in love again with 
your own husband.” 

Alex did not remove her eyes from the almost deprecating 
scrutiny. 

“It is not a criminal act if I am.” 

Evangeline drew back and stared still harder. “Oh, Alex !” 
she said ; her voice was reproachful. 

“May I be in love with Tony’s father?” Alex knew that 
Evangeline was disgusted at her disloyalty to Franklin. 

“What’s the difference, I should like to know?” Evangeline’s 
voice was amazed, incredulous. 

“To a wife there is a world of difference.” 

321 


322 


WITH OTHER EYES 


“Is there? But you are in love yourself, Alex, not for Tony 
— I can see it, feel it. Tony only comes into it; he is not the 
cause of it. You are absolutely flaming with love.” 

Alex crimsoned. 

“It has made you beautiful, Alex.” All trace of rebuke sud- 
denly left Evangeline’s voice. Her romantic nature was thrilled. 

Alex took the girl’s face in her two hands and kissed it. 
“You can’t help despising me, can you? But, really, you don’t 
understand; you have never quite understood.” 

“We never understand even ourselves until some man shows 
us our real self.” 

“I know, and only Larry can do that for me. At first, when 
we met a week ago, I thought that perhaps I was only awfully 
proud and pleased that Larry had been fighting,” she smiled 
proudly, “that he was no longer a rotter.” 

Evangeline held her two hands tightly, sympathetically. “He 
isn’t a rotter,” she said, “and I told you he was still in love 
with you; I knew he was. And he is, isn’t he?” 

“Oh, yes, I think that’s all right. He was quite pathetically 
delighted to see me, and far too forgiving — you know, I did 
take Tony from him. He never blamed me; he even said I was 
right.” 

“And so you are going to live happily ever afterwards?” 
Evangeline sighed. “Well, well, you’ll never be as interesting 
to other people again. Domestic bliss is awfully boring to 
everyone but the happy couple. And you were interesting, 
Alex; for pasts are interesting. Domestic felicity is dull. Can 
you imagine any author writing a book devoted to married 
happiness ? Heavens ! Who would read it ? What would poets 
and novelists do without unhappiness?” 

“Oh, I don’t think that our future need rob you of all 
anxiety for our happiness, Evangeline.” 

“Oh, you don’t, don’t you? This is more interesting! And 
yet you are in love — you couldn’t look like that if you weren’t! 
I knew it in an instant. You look as if inside you were all 
on fire.” 

“Am I so crimson?” 

“No, the very reverse — adorably pale.” 

“Do you find love such a very safe condition to be in? Don’t 
you think a state of negation is perhaps safer than miserable 


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WITH OTHER EYES 

hapiness ? I know that my old feeling for Larry has been to a 
great extent reborn, but I don’t blind myself to the fact that he 
may always be ‘Larry.’ I don’t anticipate perfect happiness 
ever after. If my life sounds something like a story-book to 
you, I assure you I don’t expect it to have the ‘lived happy ever 
after’ ending, so desired by middle-class readers.” 

“But you want him.” 

“Yes, I want him. I want him for more reasons than love. 
Life is quite different now. Perhaps I am very worldly, Evan- 
geline, but I like the approval of the conventional world. It 
was only for Tony’s sake that I outraged it. I want the nice, 
respectable feeling of having a husband in the foreground. I 
want the feeling that I need not shun the society of other 
ladies with questionable domestic backgrounds. When one 
has a history, one has to be so horribly particular.” She 
laughed. “Do you know, I have hated all women with un- 
producable husbands as much as a hunchback hates the sight 
of another hunchback?” 

“You aren’t a snob, Alex.” 

“I am. We all are. It’s the humanest of all petty humani- 
ties. Perhaps there is a good deal of . . she paused, 

“. . . the respectable side of a cocotte’s nature in me. I 

often think there is. I have kept virtuous according to the 
world’s idea of virtue because I appreciate respectability. By 
the way,” she said, “have any letters come for me? I took 
the liberty of telling them in London to send my letters to you — 
I knew you wouldn’t mind.” 

Evangeline gave a little cry and jumped up. “Oh! I quite 
forgot to give you this — it only came late last night. I’m sorry, 
Alex — I was so excited about seeing you, it quite went out of 
my head.” 

“A telegram?” Alex’s words were a cry. Was Tony ill? — 
that was her first thought. She took the telegram eagerly, 
almost snatching it out of Evangeline’s hand. 

She tore the envelope open and read its contents. There 
was complete silence in the room, even after she had finished 
reading it. 

“Evangeline!” Alex’s voice trembled; tears swam in her 
eyes. 


824 WITH OTHER EYES 

“Yes, dear — what’s the matter? I do hope nothing’s wrong 
with Tony?” 

“Franklin is dead.” 

“Franklin dead? I thought he was better. Oh, Alex!” 

Alex was stricken, shrivelled. “He died on Thursday. Oh, 
ray dear, my dear, the pity of it! Poor high-souled, tender- 
hearted Franklin, dead!” 

“Heart-failure, I suppose?” Evangeline said the words 
softly. 

“I suppose so.” They stood looking miserably at each other. 

“Or heartbreak, Alex? — nothing cures heartache like heart- 
break.” 

“Oh, don’t!” Alex cried. “He must just have got my letter 
telling him that I had seen Larry, that I was taking him 
back — it has killed him.” A torrent of self-reproach poured 
from her trembling lips. “I had almost forgotten the best man 
in the world, and tenderest heart God ever made! I’ve broken 
it ! My going to Larry has killed him. He always knew every- 
thing; he probably knew that I . . she paused. 

“But he wanted you to go back, he made you do it.” 

“He made me do what he considered right, but how little 
he imagined the truth. He never dreamed that I should be 
really glad! He never dreamed that when Larry kissed me I 
should know that I had never really cared for anyone else. 
And yet I would have married him if I had been free.” She 
spoke hysterically. “I knew, when Larry kissed me, when I 
heard him call me ‘Kiddie,’ that he had really always only 
to whistle to me and I’d have gone to him. I have wanted him 
to kill me with kisses, I even wanted his old brutality — any- 
thing, Evangeline, anything but the hunger of these years! 
Franklin wanted me. He saved my vanity; he brought back 
sex-interest into my ugly, colourless existence, and he, poor dear ! 
he called me his ‘pearl-woman.’ I was holier to him than all 
holy days and things. Evangeline, have you ever hated and 
despised yourself?” 

“I always do, Alex. I have lost faith in myself.” 

Alex raised her head. Something in Evangeline’s voice hurt 
her. Its sadness was sadder than her own remorse. 

“Why do you hate yourself? You have so much to be proud 
of! You have such a clean sheet.” Evangeline’s face startled 


WITH OTHER EYES 


325 


her. Her haunted eyes, like the eyes of a captured hawk, made 
her feel ashamed of her own egotism, her self-interest. She had 
overlooked her friend’s affairs. She put her arms round the 
girl. 

“I haven’t seen you since your engagement. I have been 
horribly selfish. Tell me about it.” 

“I have nothing to tell, except that I am leaving Lincluden. 
I must get married soon.” 

“ You poor thing!” Alex’s embrace tightened. “Is it as bad 
as that?” Evangeline’s voice was lifeless; she looked tragically 
heroic. 

“Oh no, it isn’t bad at all! Don’t, please, talk of my affairs. 
They can all be put in a nutshell. As there is nothing to pre- 
vent our marriage, why shouldn’t we get married?” 

“Evangeline, there is something, a very big thing. You told 
me that you nearly loved the curate you met at St. David’s. You 
do love him now. You told me I loved Larry; I now tell you 
that you love the curate.” 

“I was a fool to say such a thing.” 

Alex, who still held her by the shoulders, shook her affection- 
ately: “You are running away from Hugh Tennant?” 

“Well, I shan’t run back to him, anyhow.” 

Alex blushed. “I scarcely ran,” she said. “I was driven 
back.” 

The words brought Franklin Gibson into their thoughts. 

Glad to dismiss her own affairs, Evangeline said, “I wonder 
who will inherit all his millions ? He had no near relatives. He 
was really a lonely soul until he met you.” 

“Oh, Evangeline!” Alex flopped into a low chair, her face 
expressed amazement. 

“What’s the matter?” 

Alex covered her eyes with her hands. Shame had made her 
cheeks crimson. Through her screening fingers she said brok- 
enly, “Really, it seemed so unlikely that he would die . . . 

he was slowly recovering. ... I never gave it a second 
thought.” 

“What do you mean? What are you alluding to?” 

.“He told me that he had left me a fortune. I shall be rich. 
Before he went to the front he settled everything up. If he was 
killed, I was to inherit a large sum of money, which is to go to 


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WITH OTHER EYES 


Tony at my death. If I was ever free, and he could have 
married me, I suppose I should have had everything.” Alex’s 
hands and face were wet with tears. “It seems so brutal, so 
unfair. He fought for England; he saved Larry’s life; and 
now he is dead, and I have got everything. Besides, he left 
the money to me thinking that I was sacrificing myself to my 
duty, doing what was right.” 

“But, Alex, if he knows he will be delighted, his love for 
you was a very big thing, and I never met anyone who had such 
an overwhelming desire to do what was right. He didn’t leave 
you the money because you were unhappy; he left it to make you 
happier and because he loved you. Isn’t it curious how senti- 
mental and romantic these clever business Americans are at 
heart? You know — or, at least, you don’t know — that in the 
North and South War it was the keen, hard, level-headed, busi- 
ness-men of the North who fought against terrible odds for the 
most righteous cause that ever a war was fought for. Your 
English sympathies were, of course, with the more aristocratic 
South.” 

Alex laid tear-moistened fingers on Evangeline’s wrist, and 
drew her down on to the arm of the chair. She was trembling. 

“Your remark about the aristocracy reminds me that I have 
something else to tell you. You will never guess what it is,” 
she sighed, “the world seems to have gone mad.” She dried 
her eyes, something like a smile struggled into them. “How 
pleased Franklin would have been, I can see him looking at me 
with new eyes, just as he looked at me the day I told him that 
I owned Tregaron.” 

“What has happened? Do explain!” Evangeline waved her 
handkerchief in front of Alex’s face to bring back her absent 
eyes. “Do talk to me and not to Franklin. What else has 
happened?” 

“I am Lady Hemingway — Larry has come into a baronetcy. 
His old grandfather, his uncle, and his young cousin have all 
died during the war.” 

“You are Lady Hemingway?” Evangeline laughed. 

“Isn’t life extraordinary? I had forgotten the fact, because, 
as Larry said, there won’t be a penny to bless ourselves with — 
three death duties — and they were a poor family.” 

“But now, Alex? Now things are different?” 


WITH OTHER EYES 327 

“Yes, I had forgotten that now things are different.” Their 
eyes spoke. “Franklin’s death has changed everything. I must 
begin and think differently.” 

Evangeline wept unexpectedly. “You certainly are more like 
a story-book than ever, Alex.” 

“Don’t cry, Evangeline, because if you do I will too. I feel 
as if the world was mad, or as if I were crazy.” She put her 
hands up to her head. “A husband, a title, and a fortune is a 
pretty good deal to inherit in one week.” She sighed. “It has 
made me awfully tired, dear, and I have so much to do to-night.” 

“Lie down and have a sleep; I’ll leave you for a bit.” 

“I will lie down, but I couldn’t sleep.” She stretched herself 
out on Evangeline’s long chair. Alex had a cat’s love for com- 
fortable chairs and cushions. She pulled Evangeline’s tall body 
down until their cheeks were pressed together. They both needed 
sympathy. “How soft your cheeks are, you dear understanding 
thing. Sit down here beside me — we needn’t talk. Both our 
thoughts will be with Franklin; poor devout Franklin. His 
death has made one feel such a fraud.” 

✓ “It is just the war, Alex, the war with its unending giving 
and taking and teaching. You mustn’t feel badly about his 
death. His millions couldn’t give him you — not the real you — 
that you are giving to Larry, and they could never have made 
him happy without you. From the first hour he saw you he 
was obsessed with the desire to possess you, and now even I can 
see that you could never have made him happy. It is a different 
thing, Alex, the doing of great things and heroic deeds, to the 
going on and enduring their results.” 

Alex’s eyes lit up with understanding. “My dear,” she said. 

“Now don’t begin, Alex . . . don’t interpret things 

wrongly.” 

“Well, I won’t. Everyone must work out their own salva- 
tion, outside opinions never change our spiritual convictions.” 

“If you will try to forget the silly things I said to you in 
London, you will believe that I don’t need your pity, that I really 
resent it.” 

“Dearest, I never gave you pity, only admiration.” 

“I don’t need admiration for marrying my old lover!” Alex 
felt rebuffed. “I want to take off these heavy boots and leg- 
gings, and get into female garments. I shan’t be long.” She 


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laughed affectionately. “You’ve become so terribly feminine, 
Alex, that I feel I must change.” 

Alone with her own thoughts, the world seemed to be going 
at such a pace. that Alex could not cope with it. She felt that 
the next thing would be that Evangeline with her speed and 
falcon-swiftness would be married and heart-broken before she 
could even put out a hand to hold her back. 

Then her mind strayed from Evangeline; she could chain it 
to no definite subject. She could hear Franklin’s weak voice 
saying, “I should like you to live in Tregaron Manor. I should 
like to know that Tony was being brought up in his ancestral 
surroundings.” 

Then she saw a runaway wife standing at a high window, 
looking over the deep glen and black woods at Tregaron. She 
heard the booming of its waters in the Devil’s Cauldron. She 
saw as clearly as if she was standing there the figure of herself, 
travel-stained and skimpily clad, inspecting her frocks in the 
wardrobe, where they were hung out in their nakedness. 

The whole thing was a dream, a phantasy, except the eyes of 
the wild girl from Grand Pre. Evangeline was not a dream; her 
sorrow was as real as the war and as unfinished. What would 
be its end? Or would it go on for ever, like the hate of Ger- 
many, booming and thundering in the air? She put her hands 
up to her face to shut out something worse. She had visualized 
the war-pigs routing and churning up the hastily-buried dead. 
****** 

Upstairs in the cottage bedroom Evangeline was changing 
her khaki breeches and top boots for an absurdly unbusinesslike 
and flimsy tea gown. For the first time in her life she wished 
that she possessed some face-rouge; she had nothing to “make- 
up” with and her cheeks were horribly pale. She was always 
clear- skinned, almost almond-toned; but this evening she was 
ghastly, and she knew it. 

Her tooth-paste was pink. With clever fingers she rubbed 
some of it into her skin, just a delicate soupcon. It worked 
wonders. She smiled, well pleased. 

“Alex is far better-looking than I am,” she said, “and younger 
— -at least, and she can always look better-looking than she is.” 
She smiled tenderly. “But that is Alex all over. She looks 
prettier than she really is; she seems cleverer than she really is; 


WITH OTHER EYES 


329 


and I believe she looks a better woman than she really is. And 
the strange thing is that she never tries to look or be any of these 
things.” 

Before her looking-glass Evangeline practised some radiant 
smiles and humorous facial tricks. They were for Allan’s sake. 

“These are for Allan’s sake, that is what I must appear 
to be.” 


CHAPTER XV 


It was the most beautiful season of the year in Scotland. Days 
of warm sunshine had followed upon two weeks of gentle rain 
and a moist atmosphere. Things were growing at such a pace 
that the girl-gardeners at Lincluden found it hard work to cope 
with Nature. The sticking and tying-up of delphiniums and 
lupins and other tall herbaceous plants had been Evangeline’s 
special work. 

The country was exquisitely beautiful, as clean and clear as 
a child’s eyes are pure and innocent. 

As Evangeline stepped out of a wide herbaceous border — or 
rather sprang from it to the green lawn, to avoid damaging the 
smaller flowers which were massed in front of the delphiniums, 
she almost fell over Hugh Tennant, who was lying face down- 
wards on the grass with an open book in front of him. He 
looked up at her with would-be mischievously mirthful eyes. 

“Caught!” he said triumphantly. He had steadied her by 
catching hold of one of her brown-legginged ankles. 

Evangeline looked down at him. It was not humanly possible 
to steel her heart against his smile. She was too late with her 
dignity and distance. He gained courage by her betrayal. 

“You shouldn’t try to catch me in working hours.” 

“I must, if you so persistently avoid me in your off hours.” 
He pulled out his watch and held it up to her. “Look, it’s your 
eleven o’clock lunch-hour, and I’ve brought some chocolate.” 

Evangeline shook her head ; but her eyes were becoming child- 
like. 

“You must,” he said. He was at her feet; he put his free 
hand round her other brown ankle. “I could bring you toppling 
down. Be good and sit down, or I shall do it.” 

She tried to spring aside. He still clung to her feet, but 
Evangeline was no ninepin to be easily toppled over. He re- 
leased her, and held up the chocolate. 

“It’s no ‘substitute’ — it’s the very best and sweetest.” 

330 


331 


WITH OTHER EYES 

Evangeline drew two steps nearer. She held out her hand. 

“No, you don’t,” he said. “Not one bite unless you sit down.” 
He looked into her frightened eyes. He thought that they had 
never looked so blue; but then he always thought that. “If 
you’ll sit down, like a good, obedient girl, I’ll read to you and 
not talk, and you can eat all the chocolate.” 

Evangeline allowed herself to consider his offer. Could she 
do it — just sit and eat and listen? It was the talking about 
intimate things which was dangerous. If he read to her, she 
could go directly he had finished. 

“What is the book?” she asked. 

“A collection of verses, ‘Poems of to-day.’ It contains some 
examples of the younger poets.” 

“The Georgians, as precious people call them?” 

“Yes, mostly. It’s a surprising collection for two-and-six. 
I treat myself occasionally to a new book.” He handed her a 
slab of chocolate. She was not to be given all the cake at one 
time; the eating of it was to be drawn out. His tone had become 
impersonal, reassuring. He tried to look absorbed in the index 
of the thin volume. She seated herself beside him. “Would 
you have preferred a cigarette?” He asked the question of her 
as he would have asked it of a man. 

“Oh, no, thanks! I feel like a sweet-drunkard. I can’t tell 
you how I long for candies! I envy the bees sucking honey 
from the flowers. I wish I knew how to do it. Horatio Bottom- 
ley said he wished he was a hen when he was asked to subscribe 
to the egg collection for our soldiers. I wish I was a bee.” 

His eyes caressed her. “Eat all of that now,” he said. “We 
soldiers get more than we need. It’s too bad — you war-workers 
are starved.” He laid a big, paper-covered square of chocolate 
beside her on the grass; she had no woman’s lap. 

“Oh,” she said impulsively, “may I eat it all? It’s so good, 
and it’s really sweet! But can you get more?” 

He shook his head ; his eyes were dangerously tender. 

“In Canada we all eat so many candies. Mamma and I 
never used to be without our boxes of chocolates. They mat- 
tered more than food.” She ate the chocolate eagerly, looking 
like a pleased child. He could see what it meant to her. 

“You’re getting thinner,” he said. “I believe it’s for want of 


332 


WITH OTHER EYES 


sugar. What a shame it is! And at the front there is sugar to 
waste; they throw it on the fires when they won’t kindle.” 

Evangeline laughed. “Make some allowance for my hard 
work!” 

He looked at her. Their minds were naked to each other. 
His eyes told his understanding of the real reason for her altered 
looks. “If it is war-work and the lack of sugar,” he said, “I 
can bear it.” 

Evangeline opened the book. Her eyes were restive, fright- 
ened. He began to read the poem on the first page. It was high 
time to begin on something. Besides, it was one which he liked, 
and it was well worthy of its prominent place in the book. 

“The first poem seems written for this old place,” he said. 
“I’ll begin with it. 

“ ‘Very old are the woods ; 

And the buds that break 
Out of the briar’s boughs, 

When March winds wake, 

So old with their beauty are — 

Oh! no man knows 
Through what wild centuries 
Roves back the rose.’ ” 

He looked at Evangeline. He had chosen well; her eyes were 
restful. The poem was safe. With her passion for Nature, he 
could not have selected anything better. She smiled and nodded. 
The chocolate was sweet; the bees were humming; the flower- 
border was gay; Hugh’s voice was heavenly. He read the next 
verse. Again their eyes met, frankly, approvingly. The sun 
and the bees and the trees and the chocolate were working on 
Hugh’s side. Was it the side of good or of evil? “Go on,” she 
said, “I like it.” 

“ ‘Very old are we men ; 

Our dreams are tales 
Told in dim Eden 
By Eve’s nightingales; 

We wake and whisper awhile 
But, the day gone by, 

Silence and sleep like fields 
Of Amaranth lie.’ ” 

“Who is it by?” she asked. Her voice was less steady. 
“Like fields of Amaranth” — those four words had brought back 


WITH OTHER EYES 333 

what she had no desire to remember — their talk about “Love lies 
bleeding.” 

“It’s by Walter de la Mare.” Hugh turned over a few pages 
of the book, selecting here and there a poem, from a wide range 
of poets, asking her if she knew the writer by name. Evangeline 
was familiar with Rupert Brooke and John Masefield, and a 
few of the older writers, some of whom were Victorians. He 
looked for one particular poem until he found it. 

“I am very fond of this one,” he said. “It also suits the 
place, I always think.” 

“ ‘O dreamy, gloomy, friendly Trees, 

I came along your narrow track 
To bring my gifts unto your knees 
And gifts did you give back; 

For when I brought this heart that bums — 

These thoughts that bitterly repine — 

And laid them here among the ferns 
And the hum of boughs divine, 

Ye, vastest breathers of the air, 

Shook down with slow and mighty poise 
Your coolness on the human care, 

Your wonder on its toys, 

Your greenness on the heart’s despair, 

Your darkness on its noise.’ ” 

Hugh read as he sang, to her and for her. Evangeline be- 
came industrious over picking off the silver paper from a fresh 
piece of chocolate. She dared not look up. 

“Do you like it?” he asked. “It’s Herbert Trench.” 

“Of course I like it!” she said almost resentfully. “It’s 
beautiful — ‘O dreamy, gloomy, friendly trees.’ ” Her eyes 
travelled to the immense limes which were in the distance in 
front of them. “Trees are so friendly, with all their ‘coolness on 
the human care.’ ” She kept her head bent, her eyes averted. 

“ ‘Their greenness on our heart’s despair, 

Their darkness on its noise.’ ” 

It was Hugh who spoke. “Trench fits into so many of my 
moods. The younger poets make Nature a new force in verse.” 

Evangeline looked at her wrist-watch. Hugh put his fingers 
over its face. His touch thrilled her. 

“Ddn’t be so practical. Listen to this tiny thing by Robert 


334 


WITH OTHER EYES 


Bridges. You can work later to-night and make up for it — 
don’t spoil perfection.” 

“ ‘When June is come, then all the day 

I’ll sit with my love in the scented hay: 

And watch the sunshot palaces high, 

That the white clouds build in the breezy sky.’ ” 

Evangeline’s face was quivering. Her honour was in the 
balance. 

“ ‘She singeth, and I do make her a song, 

And read sweet poems the whole day long: 

Unseen as we lie in our hay-built home. 

Oh, life is delight when June is come.’ 

“That is what June and youth were made for,” he said. 

“It should be set to music,” she said evasively. “You could 
sing it; it would be your style of song.” 

“I could sing it,” he said, “and I could read sweet poems 
the whole day long, and I would make our hay-built home.” 

Evangeline was on her feet. 

“Have I been good?” he asked. “Did you like the poems?” 

She nodded. 

“And the chocolate? You big baby.” 

She nodded again. “It was so good, the nicest thing I’ve 
tasted for months.” 

“Then come and have some more. I’ll bring some chocolate 
to-morrow and we’ll read more poems.” 

Evangeline shook her head decisively. 

“Take the book,” he said, “and read them to yourself, and 
then tell me the ones you like the best, and see if they are my 
favourites.” 

“No.” 

“Just point-blank no?” 

“Yes, just no.” 

“And I thought I was so good ! Listen to this — this is what 
I wanted to read to you, and didn’t.” He rose to his feet and 
walked with her, saying the poem impetuously, making her 
listen to it. 

“ T have heard the song of the blossoms and the old chant by 
the sea, 

And seen strange lands from under arched white sails of ships; 


335 


WITH OTHER EYES 

But the loveliest things of beauty God ever has showed to me, 
Are her voice and her hair, and eyes, and the dear red curve 
of her lips.’ 

“I ought to have written that, not John Masefield.” 

Dont! Don’t! You are cruel, selfish!” She was trembling. 

“I wouldn’t have done it if you had said that you would 
come to-morrow; you brought it on yourself. Men are driven 
when they love.” He was shaking and breathless. “Oh, blue 
eyes, what mad, bad thing are you doing ? What right have you 
to do it?” His voice broke as it had done when he tried to sing, 
and just as she had abruptly left him at the last verse of the 
song which he had sung so triumphantly, so he now turned on 
his crutches, and without a word Evangeline found herself alone, 
alone under the breeze-driven clouds, alone, with no noise in the 
world of stillness, but his voice saying: “Oh, blue eyes, what 
mad, bad thing are you doing?” 

The words sobbed and moaned and lingered. $ 

“What right have you to do it?” What right, when love had 
so gone out of her keeping? What right had she to go against 
Nature, to break one man’s heart to save another’s? Both men 
were at her mercy, both of them deserved a goodly reward. The 
one had fought for his country, the other was the victim of 
misfortune. She looked at the trees. 

“ ‘Your greenness on the heart’s despair!’ ” she said. “How 
cruelly true! ‘Your darkness on its noise.’ ” The noise of her 
agony needed their darkness. She would seek it. 

****** 

After this failure to meet as friends, Evangeline avoided. 
Hugh more carefully than ever. He had not been told of her 
resignation of her post. They had scarcely met — never to speak 
to each other — since the morning when he had read aloud the 
poetry to her. She had now only one week more at the hospital. 
He realized at last that her desire to avoid him was right and 
necessary if her engagement to Allan was to be taken seriously, 
if it was to lead to marriage. At first he had refused to believe 
that such was the case; he could not believe that any man in 
Allan’s condition could be selfish enough to marry a girl with 
Evangeline’s temperament, to marry a girl whom he certainly 
must know did not really love him. 

He had not reasoned with himself about his own love for 


336 


WITH OTHER EYES 


Evangeline; he had never even pictured to himself a more 
concrete state of affairs than the fact that they loved each other. 
He knew that now, he knew it gloriously and humbly. He was 
only a wounded soldier, an ex-curate, without any prospects, 
and alas! one upon whom the orthodoxy of the Church sat ill. 

For weeks he had been supremely satisfied with the state of 
things which permitted Evangeline and himself to be at Lin- 
cluden together. Each day was precious to him which held out 
the prospect of their meeting. Every hour was filled with the 
restless unhappy-happiness of a lover. The war had taught 
him not to think. It was all a part of the creed of the day. 

And now he was beginning to understand. The girl really 
meant the wrecking of their lives. She imagined that she was 
capable of marrying a man whom she must by nature physically 
reject. She imagined that she was strong enough to live in 
wifely intimacy with him and make him happy. She believed 
that her will could triumph over the strange forces in a woman 
which slumber not neither do they sleep. 

And so Hugh had left her alone, until she could bear it no 
longer. She had only two more days, and she simply could not 
leave Lincluden without saying good-bye to him. It would be, 
she told herself, the briefest farewell, but it would be better than 
this grave-like silence. 

When she was far away from him and married to Allan, 
things would be different. While she was so near to him, she 
must see him, if it was only to help her to stop thinking about 
him. 

Urged by one of her moods, she took off her war uniform 
and donned her most feminine clothes. She would go to the 
hospital and play the piano. That would be an easy thing to 
do. Long ago she had received permission to use the pianos, 
to practise accompaniments for the soldiers’ songs. She did 
not feel the least inclined to play accompaniments at the moment, 
but it was an excuse and she felt driven to do something. Hugh 
evidently meant to keep silence. She knew that she had been 
behaving like a fool for the last ten days; she was angry with 
herself and angry with Hugh. She had given way to thinking 
about him as a drunkard gives way to drink, because it was so 
nice to think about him and to question all his feelings for her 
and what this or that look or word had meant. 


337 


WITH OTHER EYES 

This was the reaction from Glastonbury, the triumph of 
the physical. She found the music-room deserted. The day 
was too fine for the convalescents to be indoors. She seated 
herself on the piano-stool and played very badly for about half- 
an-hour and then suddenly closed the keyboard and returned to 
her cottage. Her nerves were now in a state of extreme irrita- 
tion. She was in fact “all dressed up and nowhere to go.” She 
felt a fool and undignified. Why had Hugh not been there? 
Why had fate been so against their meeting? She would just 
have told him that she was going away. She had a right to the 
satisfaction of seeing how he took the news. She was in the 
mood for a scene of some sort, anything, in fact, to help her 
to bear the days which were unbearable. 

“If I had only once allowed him to kiss me, I could always 
imagine that Allan’s kisses were his! If I could feel his lips 
on mine, I should always feel them, the satisfaction would 
never leave me!” 

When she reached the privacy of her own sitting-room, she 
flung herself down on her couch. Her cottage was only a few 
feet from the road-side. Her head was on her arms, buried 
in the cushions. Suddenly she raised herself and thumped the 
cushions with her clenched hands, thumped them savagely. 

“You beast!” she said, as she beat them. “You disloyal little 
beast, unworthy of any decent man’s love!” 

She was crying miserably with her head again buried in the 
pillows. 

“I am like a secret drunkard, dream drinking whenever I 
get the chance. I have been intoxicating myself with forbidden 
fruits! drugging myself with heavenly thoughts!” 

And yet she was not repentant. She still felt driven, urged. 
Until she had done something reckless, the mood would hold 
her. The desire to be managed, to be wholly conquered and 
submissive to love, grew upon her. If something big and fierce 
were to come into the room and gobble her up, she would 
welcome its power over her; she would not wish to resist. She 
would resign herself to its hunger for her body. 

Her desolation was like a winter lake lying between barren 
hills. She was tired, so tired, of camouflage, of always having 
her will recognized. Where was her master? 

Moans of anger and longing escaped her control. She was 


338 


WITH OTHER EYES 


forgetful of her open window. They caught the ear of Hugh 
Tennant, who, dressed in his bright invalid’s blue, was stand- 
ing at the cottage door. He had knocked, but had received no 
answer. Hearing the moans, he quickly limped inside and 
listened. More moans came distinctly from the room on his 
left. . The door was ajar. He pushed it open and stepped 
inside. 

Evangeline, with the soft cushions all round her dark head, 
remained unconscious of his presence. Her moans were fol- 
lowed by dragging sobs. Her attitude of abandonment was 
all that was needed, her lover understood everything at a glance. 
He had been told that she had been in the music-room at the 
hospital, and he had quickly followed her to the cottage. 

When he saw her, dressed as girls were dressed when the 
world desired nothing more of them than their sweet girlhood, 
he knew a thousand subtle, wonderful things. He knew that 
she knew that he loved her best, not as Rosalind, with boyish 
limbs, but as the old violet-crowned, pure, sweet, smiling Evan- 
geline. 

Evangeline felt the arms she hungered for enfolding her, the 
hands which knew how to love clasping her, the lips which 
knew how to kiss, kissing her. 

There was no resistance. Heaven had come to earth. Her 
small breasts were flattened with the pressure of his strong 
hands. Heaven was drowning her; her lips were given to the 
feast; her closed eyes shut out all that was not love and Hugh. 

There was no sound. Hugh was bending over her. Only her 
head and shoulders were raised to his caresses. A sensation of 
being wholly at rest for the first time in her life robbed her of 
all desire to resist. 

Nothing could have been wiser than Hugh’s silence. It is 
always a thing to be puzzled over — why lovers may do things, 
but not say them. He knew this. He knew that although 
Evangeline was softly submissive and wholly responsive, yet he 
might not say that he loved her; he might kiss her lips, but he 
dared not say, “Give me a kiss.” Words accuse, deeds excuse. 

It was Evangeline herself who first broke their Eden stillness. 
There was a droning in the heavens; the sound of a mammoth 
bumble-bee flying overhead. Her ears caught the sound. She 
drew her lips from Hugh’s; her eyes became afraid, guilty. 


339 


WITH OTHER EYES 

The droning grew louder; the sound was unmistakable. 

“Go!” she said. “Go! Do you hear that? Oh, I am mad 
to-day, but I just had to love you and to be loved by you! I 
should have died if you hadn’t come!” 

Hugh seated himself on her couch. He took her in his arms 
and held her with her face closely pressed to his cheeks. He 
kissed her into a submissive silence. Still the humming in the 
heaven continued, he must drown the noise with his love; he 
would close her senses to its influence, drive away the thoughts 
it had awakened. 

“Dear blue-eyes! Dear, heavenly blue-eyes!” 

Only these foolish words disturbed their lovers’ silence. 
Twice Evangeline murmured his name, as though the word 
“Hugh” expressed all the love which the vast world contained. 

Then the droning grew louder, the spinning of a propeller 
coming nearer to earth. Its speed held them; its significance 
filled the room. Allan, with his half-masked face, rose up be- 
fore their eyes. They became awkward, nervous. As the aero- 
plane droned and hummed, Evangeline’s joy turned to shame. 
Still her hands were clasped in Hugh’s. The noise in the 
heavens passed directly over the cottage; the birdlike thing was 
so low that they could almost feel its vibration. A new silence 
lay between them. Had the humming, throbbing engine come 
as a spectre to recall her to her senses ? She tried to move away 
from Hugh, to withdraw her hands. He only caught them the 
more tightly, while his eyes frightened her. He slipped to his 
knees at her feet ; with her two hands still in his, he stared into 
her nervous eyes. 

Evangeline struggled to free herself, to assert her will power. 

“No, don’t try to get away. There can be no drawing back 
after this ! Your love is mine. I always knew it. We love each 
other, Evangeline — that wipes out everything else!” 

Evangeline shivered. She had no words. She was trembling 
while the saddest happiness bewildered her; she could not think; 
she only knew that the droning had brought back despair. 

Hugh put his arms round her neck and loved her with his 
eyes; they waited her answer; his lips invited her giving. But 
she gave nothing. He felt her fear, her fight for strength to 
resist. 

“There can be no going back now,” he said again. His 


340 


WITH OTHER EYES 


waiting lips tightened, closed. He helped himself back to the 
sofa. Something about him frightened Evangeline. He was 
not going to allow her to do what she meant to do, treasure this 
hour all her life, and be a good wife to Allan. She could do 
it now; she felt she could. Her life would never be empty of 
Hugh again; these moments were for eternity. 

“We have been wicked, Hugh. Please go away. We must 
never meet again, never!” 

He caught her fiercely to him. “Be done playing with life!” 
he said roughly. “Be done playing with men’s hearts! You’ve 
got to be done with it, for you’ve been beaten. You love me, 
you want me as I want you! Neither of us is complete with- 
out the other!” She struggled. He shook her. “You may have 
thought you were going to get off scot-free, but you haven’t!” 
He caught her face in his hands and kissed her eyes. “You 
are mine ! You needn’s fight against love any more !” 

Evangeline was rapturously enjoying his love and anger. He 
made her give him many kisses. He could have made her do 
anything. The more he compelled her the more she wished to 
be compelled. 

“Now, say you don’t love me? You can’t! Who taught you 
to kiss like that? It was love that taught you, your instinctive 
love for me ! It’s true. Oh, my dearest,” he said, more softly, 
“the world holds no other woman for me; I have known it 
always, even on that day at St. David’s. And now I know 
that for you the world holds only me!” 

“Yes, I love you, Hugh. I must say it just once. I have 
lost myself; I can’t find the old Evangeline.” 

“I am satisfied with the new one, sweetheart; I like her best. 
But to me she is not new. I always knew her; I always spoke 
to her, in Flanders when I was alone at night; I always knew 
that she was going to be mine; I always knew that my love 
would be her master.” 

“I was never like this before ... I have been . . .” 

she paused. 

“You were always like this,” he said, “only you didn’t know 
it, my violet-crowned, pure, sweet, smiling Evangeline! That 
is what a great lover of Sappho’s said of her. It describes you. 
I have said it of you hundreds of times — sweet, smiling Evan- 
geline.” 


WITH OTHER EYES 


341 


“I’m not sweet, Hugh, and I don’t feel like smiling ever 
again.” She kissed him tenderly. “This is my farewell. This 
has just been a little time of mad forgetfulness, my ‘immortal 
day.’ ” 

“It hasn’t!” he said angrily. “You know it hasn’t! This 
isn’t wrong; it’s right. We love each other; we want nothing 
more than each other. We know that, both of us, you and I. 
You know that if you marry any other man, your thoughts will 
always be with me. You know that I hold the key to your 
womanhood. It can never be anything but a sin to give your- 
self to any other man. Dear, reckless blue eyes, don’t make 
marriage an unlovely thing. It can be nothing else if you 
don’t love your husband. If you love him it is beautiful. Only 
love can beautify it — you must know that.” 

“Don’t!’' she said pitifully. “Don’t! I have promised. It 
means life or death to Allan. Don’t make it too hard.” 

“It will mean hell for us both. Is Allan worth it?” 

“Don’t ask me that! You mustn’t. I won’t allow myself to 
talk about it to you. It has got to be, my promise is given. 
If he was well and like he used to be. . . She shivered. 

“You can’t do it!” he said. “And, by God, you shan’t!” He 
took hold of her; his eyes glowed like lamps; a furious anger 
possessed him. “Do you hear — I mean to stop it!” 

“How will you stop it?” Evangeline’s pride leapt up. 

“I will go to him and tell him that you love me, that the 
thing is over.” 

“You daren’t! You can’t do it — no man could!” 

“I will do anything, anything, to stop you doing this horrible 
thing! The old conventions are dead, love is free, for love is 
of more moment to-day than it ever was before. Besides, it’s 
horrible!” 

“It is not horrible. Allan is an old friend and a very dear 
one.” 

“It is horrible, I tell you. It’s more than horrible. You, who 
could kiss me as you kissed me a moment ago, who wanted my 
love, who was starving for it every bit as much as I was starved 
for yours, are going to marry another man, who does not know 
this! You are going to do a mock heroic thing and marry a 
man out of pity. It would be kinder to kill him.” 

“You oughtn’t to speak like that.” 


342 


WITH OTHER EYES 


He laughed bitterly. “I suppose I oughtn’t, according to all 
the vile old conventions which permit these hideous marriages 
to take place! But I think I ought to speak. If I did what 
I thought right, I’d go to Allan Fairclough and tell him that 
you don’t love him, that you love someone else. No man worth 
his salt would marry a girl if he knew that she loved another 
man as you love me. He may not find you a very responsive 
lover, but I swear that he doesn’t know you love me.” 

“What would you think if a man did that to you? If he came 
and said, ‘You must give up your girl, for I want to marry 
her’?” 

Hugh’s face crimsoned; he looked crestfallen. “I couldn’t 
say that, for I can’t marry anyone. I haven’t a penny-piece.” 
He turned his head away. “Not a penny-piece in the world! 
I had forgotten that.” He was silent. 

Evangeline startled him by laughing like the girl that she 
was. Her laughter was as caressing as a kiss. How she loved 
him for his dear unworldliness ! 

“Then you don’t want to marry me? What is it all about?” 
Her eyes held a woman’s soul. 

“I want to marry you this minute! I’d give my other foot 
to marry you, if you’d love a footless man!” Her low laugh 
gave the assurance. “You see, I didn’t tell you that you are 
not to make this mad marriage, that it cannot be allowed, be- 
cause I thought I could marry you, I really didn’t! It was 
because we love each other; that is what prevents it.” 

Evangeline was silent. Her happiness was outside the prac- 
tical meaning of words. 

“You see, sweetheart, you can’t do it, because we love each 
other, and wherever we are in the world, we shall be loving each 
other and living for each other’s love and for each other’s 
thoughts. And that’s why.” He smiled. “That is why you 
can’t marry another man.” He lifted her face to his. “Do you 
hear, dearest heart, do you agree? It may be difficult; I be- 
lieve it will.” 

“Agree to what?” 

“To be sufficient to each other, even if we are apart, to wait 
and put our faith in our love, to trust in providence, in fact.” 

“I can’t, Hugh. You don’t know Allan.” 

“I know you. You can’t marry him.” 


WITH OTHER EYES 


343 


“But I must. I have promised — it will kill him.” 

“Then he must die.” 

“Oh, Hugh!” 

“If he is like that, he is better dead. It is better for him to 
die than that you should marry him and die, as you would.” 

“But I shouldn’t die.” 

“You would,” he said. “Your very engagement is killing 
you.” 

Evangeline’s eyes dropped under his. “It is seeing you. 
When I am away . . . when we are married . . .” 

Hugh took her in his arms. “Don’t say it!” he said fiercely. 
“You shall not marry him! I don’t believe in what people may 
call dishonour; there is no dishonour in taking you away from 
your promised husband. Such promises should be broken, 
broken by me, rather than allow you to give yourself to a man 
you don’t love. Dear wild thing!” he said, as he strained her 
struggling body to his breast. “Don’t you know that marriage 
without love is a hideous thing? It isn’t for you — you were 
made for it at its loveliest. You could never endure the other.” 

“There are many happy marriages which begin on a more 
practical, less passionate basis.” Her protest was feeble. 

“Dearest, won’t you wait for me, break off this tragic hero- 
ism! Wait for me, wait for the best thing in life, the treasure 
even of the humble. Love will find a way.” 

She looked at him. “I could wait until I was a hundred, 
Hugh, and the waiting would be happiness, but there is my 
promise. And Allan’s father — I love him. He is so happy at 
the prospect of our marriage. He never urged it; he was even 
afraid at first. Now he is so pleased about it all.” 

“Then he can’t be human.” 

“But he is! I think he is the humanest thing in the world!” 

“He would allow you to marry a man whom you shrink from 
physically?” 

“Oh, Hugh, don’t !” A deep colour flamed Evangeline’s face. 

“You do! You try to hide it, but you can’t. That’s why I 
know you are mine. Nature gave you to me. So Nature will 
find some means for us, if only you will wait.” He smiled 
tenderly. “I know you will never marry a curate.” 

“I forgot you ever were one. How long, long ago it seems!” 


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WITH OTHER EYES 


“I have been thinking. I am going to try for a mastership 
in a boys’ school.” 

“You said you wanted to do a curate’s work; you really 
seemed bent on it! You must not think of me; nothing will 
make me give up Allan.” Evangeline had strengthened. 

“You won’t marry him. I tell you you won’t; God won’t 
allow it. It’s a sacrilege. He reserved for His highest created 
the supreme gift of spiritual love; it is not for you to blaspheme 
it.” 

She smiled sadly. Her resolution was unshaken. 

“There will be plenty of schoolmasters wanted. I have a 
decent degree.” 

She took no notice of his remark. 

“Will you marry a schoolmaster?” 

“Why didn’t you think of being a schoolmaster before?” 

“Good masterships weren’t so easy to get. Besides, my mother 
and sister had to be thought of. They had a cottage in St. 
David’s; we all lived together. Four years ago I should have 
been as rotten a schoolmaster as I was a curate, a mere ma- 
chine.” 

“I see.” She withdrew her hands; he had taken them again. 
“Stop,” she said. “You must go — I mean it.” 

He rose instantly. “I am going, Evangeline. I will leave 
you now, but I’m not going out of your life. You are not going 
to marry Allan F airclough ; you are going to wait for me. Some 
day you will be my wife.” He bent down. “Do you hear? 
I am as certain of that fact as I am certain that I am standing 
here. I am not afraid.” 

She looked up at him, loving each word he said, yet denying 
them. 

“I shall manage to marry you somehow,” he said, “and if 
we are as poor as the proverbial church mice, we shall be 
happier than the richest capitalists. That is one of the things 
I know about you; I know that love is far more to you than 
wealth and position.” He paused. “And now, good-bye. You 
think you are going to marry someone else; I know you are 
going to marry me.” 

Without kissing her, or attempting one last caress, he limped 
on his crutches to the door. Suddenly he swung round; their 
eyes met. Evangeline was agonised. 


WITH OTHER EYES 345 

“God bless you, dear blue-eyes. God bless you and keep 
you safe for me.” 

Stunned at his sudden going and almost afraid, Evangeline 
stood perfectly still. She could hear the noise of his crutch on 
the stone-flagged path which led to the little gate. It had 
stopped; he was lifting the latch. Now the latch had dropped 
again and the gate had shut. Hugh was walking up the road 
and all that was left to her for ever was the memory of what 
she ought to forget. 

The humming in the heavens was coming near again; it was 
growing louder and louder, this droning and busy humming 
which had always the same meaning for her. Had it come back 
to remind her that her brief hour of happiness with Hugh as her 
lover was over, a thing of the past, that her future now meant 
life with Allan? 


CHAPTER XVI 


When Evangeline arrived at Glastonbury, she had not the 
courage to be anything less to Allan than she had been when 
she left him. He knew that she was coming to make arrange- 
ments for their future and to fix the date of their marriage. She 
had allowed things to drift, because she had entertained no real 
thought of following out Hugh’s entreaty to wait for him. She 
was determined to keep her promise to Allan. She had argued 
herself into the belief that once she was married to him, she 
could do what hundreds of other women had done before — force 
herself into forgetfulness of the man whom she really loved. 
Woman is a dependent creature; she soon becomes reconciled 
to the man with whom she is living, if he is good to her. 

Allan had met her at the station on the day of her arrival 
and fortunately — or, perhaps unfortunately — he was in one of 
his most easy and happy moods. He thought that Evangeline 
looked very ill, and he told her so. 

“We must nurse you up,” he said tenderly, “and if love and 
care can put a little more flesh on your bones, you will soon 
grow fat.” 

There was so much fondness and sincerity in his voice that 
his words stabbed her. It was not the old Evangeline’s eyes 
which smiled into his, not the eyes whose coming tragedy was 
veiled; it was declared now. She was not the laughing girl 
from Acadie whom he had found looking at the world from 
upside-down. She was a tender woman, submissive to fate, 
sensitively loving to the man by her side. 

“Don’t make a fat farmer’s wife of me, whatever you do! I 
should hate myself, as I hate all fat people and things.” 

“I know your horror of all things ugly.” There was meaning 
in his words; his voice had changed. 

“We all love beauty, don’t we?” 

“Not everyone as much as you. You worship it.” 

“And who wouldn’t worship the beauty of this dear place?” 
she said. “It grows in beauty each time I see it.” 

346 


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WITH OTHER EYES 

There was suddenly a lack of something to say; it was not, 
alas! a lovers’ silence which words would have spoilt. Then 
they talked of the war and of local events, of the last air-raid, 
of anything and everything which was not of themselves. There 
was nothing said which would have been said if Evangeline’s 
love had been for Allan what is was for Hugh. And while they 
talked, all Hugh’s tricks and familiar characteristics kept pro- 
jecting themselves like film-pictures before Evangeline’s eyes. 

“Good-bye. You are mine, some day you will be my wife.” 
These words were far clearer in her ears than Allan’s eager and 
pathetic attempts to keep the ball rolling. 

If only he had known what she was really seeing and hearing, 
what would have happened? She laughed softly; the mere 
thinking of Hugh brought love into her voice. 

“Dear Allan,” she said, “how nice it is to be with you! How 
wonderfully well you are looking.” 

“And you won’t leave Glastonbury again?” 

“No, no, not without you. You know why I have come?” 
She spoke eagerly, anxiously. Her whole being owed him an 
apology. 

Allan looked at her; she held his world in her answer. “You 
are a brick!” he said. The words almost choked him. 

“No, I’m not. There is no need to go away again.” 

“I didn’t mean that!” He could not tell her what he meant; 
he only knew that he loved her more jealousy each minute; how 
he had ever existed in her absence he could not now understand. 
Her presence lit up the streets ; the world was full of her beauty. 
Yet his inner consciousness was tom by unsatisfied wants. 
Evangeline was tender and strangely loving, but there was not 
even the ghost of her old passion for himself in her eyes. His 
ears hungered for one bit of evidence of something deeper than 
affection, for some of the passion which he knew that he had 
once awakened and which was now extinguished. And yet he 
had to be contented; he had to accept her tenderness and her 
patient understanding of his own condition. He knew that he 
need expect little more, and only God knew how or why she was 
so tme to him. 

These were Allan’s thoughts in his highest and finest moods, 
the prayers of his broken and forlorn spirit. Alas! Human 
nature does not consist of highest moods. In his other moods, 


348 


WITH OTHER EYES 


her very bodily perfection maddened him, her joy in physical 
activity, her worship of Nature. He was jealous of the wide 
heavens when her eyes lost themselves in their healing. He 
was tom with jealousy of her secret thoughts; he was so hope- 
lessly outside them; they were so completely her own. On 
these occasions he became irritable and stubborn. 

Two days after her homecoming the date of her wedding 
had been fixed. She had now just one week more of freedom. 
It was enough. They were to be married, for Allan’s sake, by 
special license, and not by banns. 

Allan had begged that the ceremony might be as private and 
simple as possible so that he would not have all Glastonbury 
pointing at his disfigurement and making its pitying comments 
on his infirmities. 

It was Evangeline who had suggested that they should get 
married with as little delay as possible. If there was no fine 
trousseau or social gaiety to be arranged, what was to prevent 
an immediate marriage ? 

During these strange days of courtship she heard constantly 
from Alex, so there was always a great deal to talk to Allan 
about, for although he did not know Alex personally, he had 
become interested in her strange story. 

News of every sort came pounding in which prevented her, 
perhaps fortunately, from absorbing herself in the most 
momentous event in her life. The second and greatest German 
offensive was hanging in the air; it was brooding like a black 
angel of death over the battlefields in France. The tension of 
the world was at breaking-point; the agony of waiting hearts 
and homes was greater than it had ever been before. 

Evangeline told herself that her marriage, and whether she 
was in love with Allan or whether she was not, were matters 
of so little moment, of so little importance, that she was a 
pitifully poor creature if she could give herself up to dwelling 
too much upon them. It was almost laughable to think that it 
mattered whether she herself was happy or not. The one and 
only thing that really mattered Was the heart of England. Was 
it perfectly sound and strung up to all enduring? If the war 
went ill for England then there could be no such thing as happi- 
ness for any man or woman in the Empire. So what did her 


349 


WITH OTltER EYES 

personal affairs matter? And yet . . . and yet ... ! 
She had to stamp her foot upon the thought, the guilty surety; 
she had to smash it like a snail under her foot — the secret 
assurance that if all the world belonged to Germany and she her- 
self belonged to Hugh, there would be a sweetness in life which 
nothing could touch. No outward calamity or hideousness 
could affect it. In each other’s arms, the enslaved world might 
groan and moan and languish; they would be outside it, com- 
plete, untouchable. 

She still held herself aloof from anything like confidences 
with her mother. She had taken up the same devoted attitude 
to Allan as she had shown on her last visit. So beyond the fact 
that the girl looked ill and strained, there was nothing to sug- 
gest to either her mother or the doctor that her coming marriage 
was the cause of her delicate appearance. When the date was 
fixed for their marriage, Mrs. Fairclough had summed up 
courage to say to her child : 

“Are you quite sure, Eve, that you will be happy?” 

All the better ways by which she had meant to approach the 
subject were blocked by Evangeline’s reserve. What she had 
meant to say was unsayable. 

But Evangeline refused to be serious. “Of course not, little 
mamma. Who can be sure of being happy? What a young 
question! But Allan and I are ready for the same gamble as 
all other married people go in for. You are one of the lucky 
ones.” She kissed her mother. “Don’t worry, dearest. We 
can’t all be you and the Doc, you dear sillies!” 

“Oh, but you can, Eve ! I . . .” 

“No, we can’t. The war has killed our youth, our ideals; 
it has made us laugh at almost everything we once believed in. 
It has even changed our values.” 

“But England has never been more idealistic, and, really, 
Eve, there is still great personal happiness.” Her mother 
wondered why her child could not trust her. 

“Then if there is so much personal happiness, Allan and I 
will get our share of it. He deserves it, if anyone does, don’t 
you think so?” 

“Oh, my dearest, so do you . . 

“We’ll see about that. So far I haven’t.” Evangeline shook 
out a skirt from the box in which it had arrived. She held 


350 


WITH OTHER EYES 


it up against herself. “What rubbish they do make now! 
This is supposed to be blue serge.” She held it out for her 
mother’s inspection. 

Mrs. Fairclough quite understood that their personal con- 
versation was to be closed. She knew her child. For the next 
quarter of an hour they discussed domestic plans and wedding 
garments. 


CHAPTER XVII 


It is generally little things which bring about momentous 
happenings. In real life there is seldom an outward or visible 
working up to a great event. 

Only four days remained until Evangeline’s wedding. She 
had not heard one word from Hugh herself, nor had Alex made 
any reference to him in her letters. She had told Evangeline 
that the fortune which Franklin Gibson had left her was a 
large one, large enough to allow them to live at Tregaron Manor 
and never worry about money matters again. For the present, 
until the money was realisible, Alex was living her old life in 
her ladies’ boarding club in London. 

Larry was still in his convalescent home. His new arm had 
just arrived and he was trying to get accustomed to using it. 

A present had arrived for Evangeline from Alex by the 
morning’s parcels post. Allan had just left her with his letters 
in his hand when it arrived. He had gone to his father’s study 
and consulting room to discuss, as Evangeline imagined, some 
business which had reference to their marriage. Alex’s present 
was so beautiful and unusual, that after examining it, she ran 
after Allan to show it to him. He must look at it before he 
began his talk with his father. 

With Alex’s present, its wrappings and the box in which it 
had arrived, all in her hands, she hurried excitedly to the study 
and pushed open the door; it was too early for any consulta- 
tions with strangers to be going on, so she had no hesitation 
in entering the room. 

As she did so, the Doctor called out sharply, ‘‘Who’s there?” 

“Only me, Doc. Do look at this!” On entering the room 
she faced Allan. He was unmasked. She stopped. The 
present fell from her arms; its beauty and its delicacy were 
smashed to a hundred fragments on the floor. With one mad 
scream, which rang through the room, Evangeline tottered for- 
ward. Her hands went up to her eyes in a blind agony of fear. 

351 


352 


WITH OTHER EYES 


Driven like a frightened animal at bay, she turned and tried 
to reach the door. The Doctor sprang towards her, while Allan 
stood as still as though he had been turned to stone. 

But the Doctor was too late to save her. Evangeline, still 
with her hands before her eyes, had caught her foot against 
the leg of a chair; she made no attempt to save herself. She 
fell as suddenly as if a bullet had struck her dead on the spot. 
As she fell, her head came in contact with the stone curbing 
round the open hearth. 

Her coming and her fall had been so sudden that both the 
Doctor and Allan were too startled to speak. Now, in an 
awful silence, the unconscious girl lay at their feet; her wild 
scream still ringing in their ears. As the doctor tried to raise 
her, Allan stooped forward to help him, but his father put a 
restraining arm on his shoulder. Allan turned away sharply; 
he knew what his father meant. 

“My poor boy, my poor son,” the Doctor said affectionately. 
His voice expressed more than his words; it expressed all that 
the girl’s act had foretold for Allan’s future, all that forbade his 
marriage. “Leave her to me, Allan.” 

“Perhaps I’d better,” Allan said; his voice was awful. 

The Doctor looked up into his son’s agonised face. 

“Fate has done for me, father, what I hadn’t the courage to 
do myself.” 

“We forgot to lock the door — it was my fault.” 

The doctor occupied himself with Evangeline. Allan was 
replacing his mask on his disfigured face. 

“It was no-one’s fault,” he said bitterly. “These things are 
beyond us.” 

“Give me a hand,” the doctor said, after glancing at Allan 
to make certain that his mask was properly adjusted. “Help 
me to lift her on to the couch, and then go to the surgery and 
tell Aitkens to come and help me to carry her upstairs. Is it 
securely fixed?” He looked at the flesh-coloured mask. “Then 
you had better leave her to me, my boy — she might recover.” 

“ Might recover?” Allan’s was the voice of a shattered man. 

“Consciousness, I mean. Not that I think it likely, for I’m 
afraid of concussion. Fortunately her temple just missed that 
thing.” He indicated one of the heavy steel dogs which held 
the fire-irons. 


WITH OTHER EYES 353 

Allan hurred off to the surgery. As he returned, he met Mrs. 
Fairclough. She was arranging some flowers in a vase which 
stood on an oak chest in the hall. 

“Aren’t these exquisite, Allan?” she said. “They are still 
moist with dew. I hope they won’t all be over before your wed- 
ding-day.” 

Allan went quickly up to her and put his arm round her. His 
misery enveloped her, engulfed her in its intensity. 

“Mother,” he said — he always called the tiny woman 
“mother” — “mother, I want you, I need your help. There won’t 
be any wedding-day.” 

“Oh, Allan, has something happened? What is the matter?” 

“Everything,” he said. 

“What do you mean?” Her arms went round him, while 
her mind was struggling with the mystery of his unhappiness. 

“I mean,” he said, “that Evangeline is unconscious. She’s 
mad, I think, mad with horror because she saw me without 
my mask! My God!” he said, “why in hell’s name did you 
let me live?” 

Evangeline ill, unconscious? Allan’s agony had been ter- 
rible, but her own child was ill, unconscious; in her new fear 
his agony was forgotten. 

“Go to her,” he said. “She’s with father and Aitken. She 
came into the study — we had forgotten to lock the door. Father 
was making this beastly thing more comfortable. It wouldn’t 
have taken five minutes; yet she just happened to come. Go 
to her — when she revives she will need you.” 

Mrs. Fairclough was looking at the striken youth and listen- 
ing in a dumb terror to his words. An agony which was new 
to her seemed to fill the world. What she had dreaded might 
happen, had happened. Allan had, in this cruel way, been 
made to face the truth, to see himself as he was. 

“My dear, my dear, be brave! Try to bear it, Allan!” As 
she kissed him helplessly, her tears wetted his unmasked cheek. 
What was there to say? What could she say? She repeated 
her words almost mechanically. “Be brave, dear boy, be 
brave!” But what was the use of words? What was the use 
of ignoring the tragedy of what had happened ? 

Allan felt her sympathy ; he knew her desire to comfort. The 
fact that a woman as fair and pretty as his stepmother could 


354 


WITH OTHER EYES 


caress him and kiss his distorted face with her soft lips was 
exquisitely comforting. 

He pushed her away. “Go, little mother,” he said. “We , 
must all fight these things out alone. You have been an angel 
to me.” 

Mary left him. When she put her head in at the consulting- 
room door, her husband looked up and caught her eye. He 
shook his head. 

“Leave us alone. She must be got to bed at once; Anne 
is getting everything ready. Go, dear, to Allan. He will want 
you. I’ve sent for Nurse O’Brien; she will be here directly.” 

Mary knew Nurse O’Brien, and she also knew that her hus- 
band considered that her right place was with Allan, so she re- 
turned to him. 

“How is she?” he asked, directly she entered the room. He 
was sitting on a low seat, his head hanging forward over his 
knees. 

“Still unconscious, but David didn’t need me. He told me 
to stay with you.” She spoke a little forlornly. 

“I must clear out,” Allan said. “Father said it would be 
better that I should not be here when she recovers. If it is 
concussion, the reaction is the critical time.” He raised his 
head. “This, then, is the end, mother! There can be nothing 
after this!” 

Mary, eager to be of help to him, caressed his bowed head. 
Hers was a difficult part. Evangeline was her pride and her 
joy; yet Allan was pathetically in need of love. 

“My poor boy, my dear son!” Mary repeated his father’s 
very words. 

Allan knew that his stepmother loved him because he was 
her husband’s son, and also for his own sake. At the same 
time, he had always realized that his engagement to Evangeline 
had caused her a deep and silent anxiety. 

He spoke firmly. “Mother, I will go to London — I’ll go 
anywhere — it doesn’t matter. Get her away from here, from all 
association with me, when she is well enough. Just take her 
away and let the whole thing fizzle out. Never even refer to 
our marriage. If it weren’t for the war, she ought to return 
to Canada.” 

“Oh, my dear!” 


355 


WITH OTHER EYES 

“Do it,” he said. “It’s the only way.” He put his one arm 
round her neck. “You don’t shrink from me, little mother,” 
he buried his face in her shoulder. “Your love is different. Oh, 
if you had seen her eyes! If you had heard her scream! My 
God! And she thought she could marry me!” He laughed 
hideously. 

Mary held him closely to her. “She is young, Allan. She 
has always had a curious dread of any sort of bodily infirmity. 
She has been ailing lately. Can you forgive her? Ah, what 
she will suffer for this!” 

“Forgive her?” he said. “Forgive her? I was mad to think 
she really cared enough to forget my hideousness ! Why didn’t 
you let me die, little mother? How could you think life could 
ever be endurable like this?” 

Mary made no attempt to answer the question. Indeed, she 
now wondered if they had done wisely to fight that long fight 
against death. 

There was a loud call for her. It was her husband’s voice. 
She rose hurriedly. 

“I must go.” 

Allan’s head sunk down upon his knees; his one hand 
covered his unspoilt profile. He waited for some time in silence, 
a silence so profound that all the world seemed chloroformed 
while he alone remained conscious. He waited with increasing 
agony; but Mary did not return. The stillness of the place 
became unbearable. He was more conscious of it every second. 
Were all the servants dead, or what were they doing? Surely 
the house had never before been so free from sound at this 
hour of the day? Of course no-one was about. Just because 
he wanted someone, someone who could tell him if Evangeline 
had recovered consciousness. Everyone was keeping out of the 
way. 

He was afraid to go upstairs. He felt like a leper, or some- 
thing unclean. If Evangeline felt like that about his dis- 
figurement, the whole world must feel it too. Evangeline’s 
eyes had revealed to him his own hideousness in the cruellest 
and baldest manner. 

He could bear it no longer. He was forgotten and worse 
than useless, an actual danger to the girl whom he was to have 
married in four days’ time. How absurd the idea seemed now I 


356 


WITH OTHER EYES 

How infinitely removed she was from him — he was the last 
person she must see or be allowed to think of on her recovery! 
He put his hand in his pocket and drew out his treasury note- 
book. There were plenty of notes in it. He found in another 
pocket a blank piece of paper; on it he scribbled a line to his 
father, then hurriedly and in desperation, he rose and left the 
house. The note to his father merely said, 

“I have gone to London. Send me a wire to the Rembrandt 
Hotel saying how Evangeline is. Tell me when she is con- 
scious; keep nothing from me. Mother will explain my going.” 

He did not stop even to think of luggage. He could get 
what he wanted in London. What he had to do, and do quickly, 
or he felt that he should go mad, was to leave the house where 
Evangeline lay, unconscious, because she had seen his face 
unmasked, because she had seen him as he really was. 

Had God ever asked a man to endure what he was enduring ? 
—the bitterness, the agony, the horror of himself? His. dread 
of the future drowned his reasoning. He was terrified at his 
own loneliness. 

***** * 

When he arrived at the station the London train was almost 
due. How he endured the journey can only be imagined by 
those who have made momentous journeys; those who have 
travelled to reach their dying; those who have travelled to save 
the reckless from disaster; those who have travelled as fugitives, 
fleeing from justice — those and others will know something of 
what Allan endured. 

When the train arrived in London and he took a taxi to his 
hotel, he did everything as if he were in a dream, for it did 
not matter now what he did or where he went. Nothing ever 
mattered less than he himself, or what he did. He supposed 
he should eat his meals and he supposed he should go to bed; 
he supposed another morning would follow the night, as it 
always did. He had no intention of killing himself. He was 
not entirely selfish, and to do such a thing in sane, cold blood 
would be to cause both his parents and Evangeline, undeserved 
sorrow and misery. He was simply a lifeless, wretched thing, 
who had to exist mechanically. And here we must leave him 
and take a peep at Evangeline. 

She was put to bed as quickly as possible. Warm bottles 


WITH OTHER EYES 


357 


and blankets were applied. After these few things were done 
for her, the Doctor assured his wife that the less she was in- 
terfered with, the better. 

His fear of concussion had proved correct. On the morning 
after the day of her accident she was still in an unconscious 
state. Mary was terribly alarmed. To see her beautiful, vital, 
sure-footed child lying totally unconscious hour after hour was 
indeed unnerving. But her husband assured her that there was 
no cause for great anxiety and his unremitting care and atten- 
tion helped her to bear the strain of waiting for the girl’s re- 
turn to consciousness. 

The evening of the day Allan left, a telegram had been sent 
to him. It told him that Evangeline’s condition was un- 
changed. Another telegram was sent off by eight o’clock on 
the following morning. 

Allan never received either of these telegrams. Many weeks 
after they were both returned to the Doctor by the manager 
of the hotel. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


A nurse had arrived at Glastonbury and was installed in the 
sick room on the morning after Evangeline’s accident. The 
Doctor was drinking a cup of strong coffee in the breakfast- 
room; Mary had made a pretence of eating some breakfast. 

“Is there any news, dear? Open the paper and tell me.” 

Mary opened the paper, but she had neither brains or interest 
for the war. Her child for the time being usurped her thoughts. 

“There has been an air-raid in London,” she said, “ap- 
parently a pretty bad one.” She read out the number of 
casualties reported. “Allan must just have come in for it.” 

The Doctor looked up. “What part of London has caught 
it this time?” 

His wife read aloud the brief account of the raid. 

“Nowhere near his hotel,” the doctor said, “but he may have 
been out, of course, though not likely until as late as two 
o’clock.” 

But that was the second raid — the first began at eleven, and 
it was over the East End again. Those poor things, how they 
catch it! The casualties are heavier than usual. I see it 
said that the raid was still proceeding when the paper went to 
press. 

Very little more was said about the air-raid. The war news 
was scanned and commented upon briefly. Then the thoughts 
and conversation of both husband and wife drifted back to 
Evangeline. 

Again they talked over the things which they had fully dis- 
cussed during the night. They reasoned with themselves that 
fate had probably spared them a still greater unhappiness and 
tragedy. The Doctor described to Mary once more how Evan- 
geline had taken them by surprise when he was trying to make 
some small alteration in the fixing of Allan’s mask. 

“If you had seen her, Mary — her terror and her horror — 
your heart would have broken for Allan.” 

358 


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“But the poor child couldn’t help it, David 1” 

“Of course not. She was too absolutely unprepared for the 
sight that met her eyes. He was standing opposite the door. 
And the pity of it is that the boy’s face is mending splendidly; 
in a few years it won’t be nearly so bad. She need never have 
seen him as he is now. She had firmly resolved not to. I have 
felt very much afraid about the whole thing. This is terrible 
to bear, but I believe that it is a merciful way out of a greater 
tragedy. The girl has looked very ill; she has been living at 
a high pitch.” ‘ 

“I agree with you, but it is terrible for Allan.” 

“I wish I could see what is to be the end of it.” 

“The war has taught us to live from day to day. Let us get 
her better first. You do think, David . . . ?” Mary’s eyes 

questioned her husband’s; her whole being expressed her fear 
for her child. 

“I do think,” he said, “that there is no cause for fear. Of 
course you are anxious — we shall both be anxious until she is 
conscious and convalescent; but if it was any ordinary patient 
and not one whom I love, I should not be alarmed. I wouldn’t 
deceive you, Mary. At the same time, I admit that the re- 
actionary period is the critical one.” 

“Thank you, David. I can rely upon you.” 

“We must, as you say, get her well and allow things to 
develop. We can’t change the hand of fate; we can only do 
our utmost. We must get her away from here whenever she 
is in a condition to bear the strain of being moved. Until then 
Allan must remain away. There need be no scene; he realizes 
everything now.” 

“He must be terribly anxious.” 

“I will keep him posted as to her condition. I will ’phone 
to his hotel and talk to him if I don’t hear that he has left 
London.” 

* * * * * * 

The evening post brought no letter from Allan. Mary argued 
to herself that he had nothing to say. What could he say? And 
if they were to have heard that night, it would have been neces- 
sary for Allan to have posted the letter on the night he reached 
London. 

The next morning still brought no word from him, no notice 


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of any change of address. Twice during the day the Doctor 
tried to speak to him on the telephone, but failed. 

Evangeline remained unconscious. Her mother wrote a letter 
to Allan, telling him all that there was to tell. She could not 
conceal her anxiety about the unconscious girl, although she 
assured him that his father had told her that there was no real 
cause for alarm. She concluded that Allan would judge for 
himself of the gravity of her condition from the details which 
she gave him. 

Allan’s silence caused the Doctor more real anxiety than 
Evangeline’s illness. On the third day after his departure 
Evangeline began to recover consciousness. Her unconscious 
condition, which had been characterized by the usual symptoms 
— a pale and cold skin, a feeble pulse and respiration — was 
succeeded by a period of reaction which began by vomiting. 
The Doctor was well pleased by this favourable sign, which at 
first naturally alarmed his wife. No complications were likely 
to set in, such as inflammation or congestion of the brain. Dur- 
ing this period of reaction he was gravely insistent on perfect 
quietness. It was of the greatest importance to her recovery. 
She must run no risk of loss of memory or weakening of mental 
power, undue excitability, or any of the other results of an 
impaired nervous mechanism, bad results which sometimes fol- 
low concussion. 

The vomiting was succeeded by a warmer skin, a stronger 
pulse, and a gradual return to consciousness. 

This period was one of acute anxiety to Mary. She watched 
her husband’s face with quiet, troubled eyes; she dared not 
think of a future for her child which would rob her of her old 
vigorous, vital and self-reliant personality. An impaired 
Evangeline was unthinkable; she must always be the free, wild 
child of Nature she had ever been. 

With her return to consciousness, there would be questions 
— where was Allan? What day was it? How long had she 
been ill? 

How were they to be answered? How was her mind to be 
kept undistressed ? 

But Evangeline’s first day of consciousness did not bring 
forth any of these unanswerable questions. Nature was kind; 


WITH OTHER EYES 361 

the girl lay like a weak child who is at the good stage of its 
convalescence. 

When the Doctor left her after her satisfactory period of 
reaction — Mary had been banished from the room when the 
sickness began — he came down to his wife, who welcomed him 
with an anxious smile. The tired man cried — he could not 
help himself — while he told her how satisfactorily things were 
going and how the malady was following its natural course. 
Mary at once became strong; his tears made her mother him. 
She knew that he was worn out by his unremitting care for her 
child and with his anxiety about Allan. For many months past 
his professional duties had been heavy; he had been doing the 
work which two busy men usually did in peace time. 

Mary realized by his tears what his anxiety had been. They 
told her that he loved her girl as truly as if his own love and 
manhood had begot her, the collapse of her fine efforts to bring 
happiness to his son’s shattered life had made her infinitely 
dear to him. 

Mary’s practical sympathy did the right thing. She made a 
cup of strong Oxo for her husband and placed it at his side. 
As she did so, he looked up. He was like a little child in the 
hands of his small wife. 

“Dear heart, where is Allan?” he said. “Has no word come 
from him yet? I don’t like his silence; I wish he would write.” 

Their eyes met. “Nd, no, David I” she said reassuringly. 

“Don’t think of that — nothing like that ! Our Allan is not a 
coward. Besides, he loves us.” 

The doctor put his hand through his hair. His heart was 
tired. “That is always a cowardly way out of things, but there 
is Evangeline ... he might feel driven, desperate. I wish 
he would let us know.” 

“So do I. And yet, what can he say to us?” 

“Anything, anything!” The doctor swallowed his Oxo. “He 
could ’phone to thank us for our wires — it would relieve the 
strain.” 

“Oh, David, you have been thinking that?” She paused; 
she could not say what his thoughts had been. 

“Heaven knows what I haven’t thought!” he said. “You 
didn’t hear the girl scream, you didn’t see her face! He might 
think that all the world felt like that about him,” 


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‘‘She was so taken by surprise.” 

“I know. It was none of her doing, but the fact is as it is. 
You can’t alter facts. And Allan might think it was the only 
way. My God, Mary — tell me, what way is there?” 

“He asked you to wire to him, he wanted news of her.” 

“Yes, there is that. I must ’phone again to his hotel. I have 
failed each time to speak to Allan, even when I have got on to 
the hotel. And I can get no information as to his movements.” 

“And he said he would notify his change of address?” 

“Yes, he said so, but he hasn’t.” He sighed. “You know 
his old depression ? It had disappeared ; it was Evangeline who 
saved him. But this revelation, this tragedy, how may it have 
affected him?” 

“After he has received your wire telling him that she is better, 
he will write. We shall hear to-morrow. Did the clerk at the 
hotel say that he had received your wires and my letter?” 

“He told me nothing. The fool always said he’d go and 
enquire. But if he did go, he never returned; I was always 
cut off while I waited. An hotel is a hopeless place to get any 
satisfaction out of on the ’phone.” 

“I feel sure that if Allan has left London he will write to us. 
I think he has been waiting to hear of Evangeline’s return to 
consciousness. It seems to us like years, dear, but really it is 
a very little time.” 

“Well, I must get to work. Fortunately I have too much 
to do to allow time for fruitless theorising.” He looked up. 
“To-morrow she was to have been his wife!” 

“I know, dear. I wonder if Evangeline will be conscious of 
the fact?” Something in Mary’s heart rejoiced that things were 
even as they were, that such a thing could never be, that her 
child was not to be allowed to sacrifice herself. 


CHAPTER XIX 


Four days later the Doctor and his wife were discussing a 
very serious problem. Their faces were grave and anxious. 
The atmosphere of the room was so significant of a refined 
personal home-life that the solemnity of the two people in it 
seemed out of keeping with its charm. It was a cool room, 
looking out upon a smooth lawn; a large mulberry tree and 
a spreading cedar of Lebanon gave dignity to the space before 
the windows, and in the evening hours bestowed upon the lawn 
the poetic grace of their shadows. 

Both husband and wife looked older and sadder than they 
had done four days ago, and yet Evangeline was better, so very 
distinctly better that it had been necessary for them to discuss 
a weighty problem. They had discussed it wisely and un- 
emotionally. The big man knew well that the little woman 
opposite to him was understanding his feelings and sharing 
them; and Mary knew that her husband did not mistake her 
practical commonsense for indifference. 

When he rose a little wearily from his seat to kiss her, as 
he always did when he left her at the beginning of his day’s 
work, he said, “I shall be, as usual, in the surgery until ten 
o’clock, and from ten until eleven o’clock in the consulting 
room.” He paused. “If you should need me,” he drew out 
a list from his pocket, “here is my round, so that after I have 
left the house you can ’phone to any of these places — that is, 
if anything should happen. I don’t expect anything, dearest, 
and we must take the risk. You can’t put her off any longer. 
Her curiosity is awakening; she is bound to question you. You 
must satisfy her, or she will harm herself more by worrying.” 

“I know; I quite agree. She is making rapid progress; last 
night I had to beg her not to talk about things.” 

“You can’t keep her at that stage long. She will harm her- 
self far more by unsatisfied anxiety and curiosity. Just tell 
her.” 


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They had said all this before and Mary had agreed to it, so 
she held up her face. “You’d do it so much better, David. I 
almost think she loves you better than me; sometimes I feel 
she almost dislikes my nursing her.” 

“No, no, don’t be morbid! I understand the nature of the 
mind which feels in a way more at ease with those who are 
not so much to it, not so closely a part of it. Evangeline is 
acutely sensitive, so sensitive that it is easier for her to live 
as she appears to do, on the surface of things, just with 
affectionate friends, than with those who appeal to her deeper 
emotions. It is a curious hypersensitive temperament. I know 
it well, but in this crisis she will want you, not me. It must be 
you, Mary.” 

“I have thought that so often. I have never reached the 
heart of my own child, and yet I have tried.” 

“Evangeline adores you, Mary, but only a crisis would make 
her reveal her inner self to you. She has guarded her inner self 
so jealousy all her life that one might suppose that she had no 
deeper nature than the one which she shows you, that there was 
only the gaily-tragic girl who flies over both our heads, who 
evades us when we try to catch her. God bless her,” he said, 
“I love her.” He kissed Mary’s soft mouth, which was still 
fresh and pretty. “I will leave you to do it, brave heart, and 
God keep you both. You have a difficult task.” 

****** 

When her husband left the room, Mary went busily about 
her few necessary domestic duties. Evangeline would not be 
out of the nurse’s hands until she had finished them, and Mary 
had seen her before she came down to breakfast. 

“A very good night,” had been the nurse’s report, and Evan- 
geline had seemed stronger and better than she had looked the 
night before. The trouble was that she was so well and like 
her normal self that she could no longer be put off with evasire 
answers to her many questions. She had been obedient to the 
Doctor’s wishes that for her own recovery she should consent 
to remain as quiet as possible and ask for no information. She 
had been ill and she was recovering splendidly, but she might 
not go on recovering so quickly if she did not submit to his 
orders. No letters, no news, no discussions of any sort had been 
allowed in the sick room. 


WITH OTHER EYES 


365 


All this had been easily agreed to while the girl felt in- 
different and aloof from everything, during the first stage of 
convalescence. But now, with recovering vitality and mental 
clearness, events were coming back to her. No love or care 
in the world could obliterate thought, could prevent her from 
visualizing, as she hourly grew stronger the scene which had 
caused her accident. 

That was all quite clear to her; it was not that which she 
wished explained. For everyone’s sake as well as for her own 
she had done her best not to linger over the terrible scene. When 
it came into her thoughts she tried to dismiss it instantly. But 
back it came, again and again into her stillness, bringing with 
it a train of questions which she felt must be answered before 
she could exert her poor will-power and successfully dismiss 
the horrible scene from her thoughts. The date of the calendar 
in her room had been purposely put back three days, so that 
when her complete consciousness returned she was under the 
impression that she had only been ill for twenty-four hours. The 
deception was maintained very carefully for as long as it was 
possible and necessary. 

When Mary’s household duties were finished, she went to 
the invalid’s room. Evangeline was looking very beautiful. 
Mary, on the other hand, was looking rather unlike her usual 
dainty self. She was still in her grey linen pinafore, her war- 
work uniform, and her eyes showed their anxiety and weariness. 

When she entered the room, her daughter said, with one of 
her old smiles, “Little mamma, I do hate you in that ugly gar- 
ment! You were made for muslins and laces.” She held out 
her arms and embraced her nervous mother tenderly. “Dear 
little mamma, nurse has just told me — you have been telling 
me fibs about the days of the month !” 

Her mother kissed her. “You know then, Eve?” 

“Yes, I know. Nursie has explained — you wanted me to 
think that I had only been unconscious for twenty-four hours.” 
Evangeline clasped her mother more closely. “Don’t tremble, 
dear one. You wanted me not to know that my wedding-day 
had passed?” 

“Yes, my darling. You were so ill.” 

“But I am better now. Don’t be frightened for me, mamma. 
I am really better. My wedding-day passed while I was un- 


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conscious. ... I am beginning to understand.” Her head 
fell on her mother’s breast. 

“Yes, you were just recovering consciousness on that day.” 

“And where was Allan? How is he? Where is he now?” 

Her mother held her more closely. How was she to tell her ? 
Would the shock unnerve her? She was so totally unprepared. 

“When you fainted and fell, he went away. He went to Lon- 
don. He thought it was best, wisest. Your father agreed.” 

The humming of a summer bee against the window blind 
filled in the silence which followed. It droned and buzzed 
and hummed while Mary’s tortured mind was wondering and 
praying and trying to pierce Evangeline’s thoughts. How was 
she taking it ? What question would she ask next ? Her cheeks 
and hands had become very hot, but they were moist, not 
feverish. 

“I can feel your heart, mamma. It is terribly troubled.” 
Evangeline kissed her. “Where is Allan now? Is he still in 
London? I understand why he went.” 

The buzzing of the bee was like the near droning of an 
aeroplane. 

Mary hesitated. “I think, dear, you have talked enough 
for this morning.” 

The drone, droning of the bee seemed strangely prophetic. 
It hindered Evangeline’s powers of constructive thought. 

“No, please tell me — it will be far better, better for my poor 
head. Where is Allan? Is he here? Is he terribly unhappy? 
What has he been thinking?” She asked all the questions 
slowly, deliberately, with a pause between each. 

“No, no, darling, Allan is not here.” 

“Mamma, I know — I killed him! Has he killed himself? I 
remember everything quite clearly!” She trembled; on her 
white forehead there was moisture. Her eyes demanded the 
truth. “Tell me,” she said, “don’t be afraid. No truth is as 
bad as our thoughts. I have learnt that. You are afraid to tell 
me what I know: “He has killed himself!” 

“No, no! In London there was an air-raid; it happened 
the very night Allan arrived. . . .” Mary’s voice broke. 

“Well, go on — was he in it? Was he killed?” 

“Yes, he was in it. He was helping to save the poor creatures 
who were buried under their fallen houses. There was a fire as 


WITH OTHER EYES 367 

well. It was a terrible disaster. The fire was worse than the 
bombs.” 

“Allan! Allan!” Evangeline’s cry must have reached him, 
for it was an imprisoned soul seeking a soul set free. 

“He died splendidly, darling, it was a magnificent death!” 

“Oh, Allan! Allan!” Evangeline repeated her cries. She 
appeared not to hear her mother’s words; she had heard all 
that she needed to hear. 

“We know so little. We heard nothing for days; his death 
was not reported in the first casualty list We couldn’t bear 
the silence, so David went up to London for a few hours. The 
hotel-manager told him that Allan went out of his hotel with 
another man to do rescue work on the night of the raid. He 
never returned; he was just never seen again.” 

“And you don’t know any more? Is that all? Allan has 
just been wiped out while I was lying here? Oh, mamma, 
mamma !” She looked at her mother with agonized eyes. “Are 
you perfectly sure? Is that everything, the absolute end?” 

“We know that he was killed in the raid — that is certain, 
Eve, for poor David, his own father, had to identfy all that was 
found of him. He must have been killed instantaneously — 
that is our one comfort. He never suffered.” 

Evangeline disengaged herself from her mother’s arms. 
“Dearest, I think I must cry alone — do you mind?” 

“My darling . . . !” In her mother’s voice fear was 

obvious. 

“No, little dear one,” she said quietly, “don’t be afraid for 
me. It is just that I have so much to say to Allan. Leave 
me with him for half-an hour. I really won’t do anything to 
make you anxious.” Her blue eyes, hidden behind merciful 
tears, looked at Mary steadily and seriously. “Come back, in 
half-an-hour. I always could bear things best alone, you know 
that.” 

* * * * * * 

When Evangeline waked from her long sleep, which had 
been aided by a sedative, she found the Doctor sitting by her 
bedside. As her eyes met his, they seemed to have been wait- 
ing for hers to open. She held out her arms with an eager cry. 
The big man folded her to his breast. 


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“Doc! Doer’ she cried. “I did love him — say you know 
that I loved him!” 

The Doctor did not say so. He caressed her dark hair in- 
stead and held her closer to him. “Poor little girl !’’ he mur- 
mured. “My poor little girl !’ ’ 

“I hate myself, Doc! Oh, how I hate myself l” 

He kissed her forehead. How beautiful the girl was! Like 
a creation of the mind, a spiritual reality, the pure soul of a 
woman clothed in the beauty of soft flesh and wild dark hair. 

“Can you forgive me, Doc?” She held up her face entreat- 
ingly. “I couldn’t help it! I would rather have cut out my 
hateful tongue than have behaved as I did ! I never, never meant 
to!” 

“Little daughter,” he said, “we all know that; Allan knew 
it. He said, ‘Father, things have been taken out of our hands; 
it is wiser.’ You see, he couldn’t have given you up, poor boy, 
so something stronger than himself came to help him.” 

“Did he say that, Doc? Oh, tell me, tell me it all again!” 
She held up her lips. 

The Doctor kissed them. Mary’s child was his own. The 
beautiful lips which were to have been Allan’s were eager for 
his forgiveness, starved for love. 

Evangeline listened quietly while the Doctor told her all that 
Allan had said. The human magnetism of his close presence 
soothed her. He thanked her and praised her for her beautiful 
behaviour to his son, for her unselfish attempt to restore his 
shattered life. 

“Dear Doc,” she whispered, “you are so kind, so understand- 
ing. He is your son, your only beloved son, and I am account- 
able for everything. How can you be so loving, so forgiving?” 

“Dear child, none of us can help being the instruments 
selected by Providence! Don’t blame yourself. You came 
into Allan’s life just as your mother came into mine — you both 
followed the destiny arranged for you by Providence.” He 
paused. “I think, dearest, that we should be thankful that 
Allan was given the death he would have desired. He was 
doing war-work, and his death must have been immediate. 
He had suffered terribly; he has been spared much.” 

“I feel all that too, Doc, and yet there are one’s other less 


369 


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wise and reasonable thoughts. One feels that everything is 
unfair, unjust, unmerited.” 

There was a pause in their confidences. Their thoughts were 
too full for speech. 

“And now, Doc, he has become so wise and wonderful, just 
what one feels about every soldier who has faced death at the 
front. He is so far above us all.” She spoke meditatively, 
dreamily. “I was just a little afraid of you, Doc; I wondered 
if you could be unchanged to me. It is so big of you not to 
hate me.” 

“As if I should hate you for what was not your fault!” As 
he looked at her he thought how could any man hate you, what- 
ever your faults were! “I know that you were going to give up 
your life to Allan, sacrificing everything for his sake,” he said. 
“Mary and I both knew; we both dreaded the result of your 
heroic deed.” 

“But I was really fond of him, Doc — -you knew that?” 

“Yes, I knew you were fond of him. That was just it; you 
were fond of the boy and you pitied him. You are keenly 
sensitive to suffering, and you attempted to do more than human 
nature is fit for, more than Providence allowed you to do.” 

Evangeline remembered Hugh’s words: “God won’t allow 
it.” 

“And I failed, how pitifully I failed.” 

“Your failure brought about a crisis which I believe was for 
the best. Allan’s fine death is a better thing in one’s memory 
than the sight before one’s eyes of what might have been for 
you both a living tragedy. Dear child,” he said gravely, “while 
our material bodies are alive, we are human, we cannot live on 
superhuman heights. You attempted to marry Allan spiritually; 
you thought that you could ignore the truth of the words ‘with 
my body I thee wed.’ ” 

For a little longer the Doctor talked to the girl and gave 
her what comfort he could. Before leaving her, he begged 
her, if she loved him and her mother, to do her utmost to think 
of all that had happened as for the best, from the brightest point 
of view. 

“Banish regrets,” he said. “They are useless. And re- 
member that we have all gone through a very trying time.” He 
spoke urgently, almost professionally. “You are in a condition 


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now to try and help us. Nothing will so quickly restore happi- 
ness to our lives as your return to perfect health, so it is your 
duty to try to get well as quickly as possible.” He stooped and 
kissed her forehead. “You know how much I loved the boy,” 
he said, “and yet I cannot wish him back.” 

Evangeline gave him her promise, for she knew that every 
word he said was true. 


CHAPTER XX 


Tregaron Manor once more. Let us see who is in it. First 
of all there is Alex, who is quite absurdly wealthy. The ex- 
boarding-house proprietress no longer needs to worry her head 
over petty economies and weekly accounts. She is living with 
her husband and Tony, who is enjoying his summer holidays. 

Alex, with the assistance of Hebe McArthur, has converted 
the splendid old house into a convalescent home for American 
officers, her tribute to Franklin Gibson’s memory. It is a very 
perfectly equipped home, with a resident American doctor and 
a good staff of American nurses, with plenty of local V.A.D. 
voluntary help. 

Hebe McArthur, with her now thoroughly practical Ameri- 
can mind, did a great part of the equipping of the home and 
the staffing of it, while Alex was settling up her London busi- 
ness. Together they planned the whole thing after Hebe’s re- 
turn from America, where her propaganda work was no longer 
necessary. 

Alex is now a rent-paying tenant in her own house; she pays 
her father the same rent for Tregaron as Hebe McArthur paid 
for the place in 1914. Every stick and stone of the property 
is her own, and she can afford to live in it and keep it up as it 
was kept up in the days when Caroline Pontifex fed the 
pigeons on the sunny garden path. 

When the war is over and life can be lived again, Alex will 
be a very great lady; for in that wild and beautiful part of 
Wales, Tregaron is a place of importance socially. 

Tony is supremely happy. His father, with his mechanical 
arm — with which he can shave himself, much to Tony’s de- 
light — is to him a very wonderful person, a hero, a “ripping 
sort.” And undoubtedly for a boy at school it is more com- 
fortable to have a father whom you know all about, and of 
whom you can speak boastfully. Tony had suffered in his 
own way. 


371 


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Hebe McArthur looks upon it all as a beautiful fairy-tale, 
and she loves to remember that her dear sentimental million- 
aire was the prince who brought all the luxury and romance 
into the situation. Alex, to Hebe, is one of those extraor- 
dinary people whose venturesome deeds end in success, where 
other people’s generally end in failure. By leaving her hus- 
band she had gained a fortune and won back her old lover. 
For, man-like, Larry has a new sort of regard for Alex now that 
she is wealthy. There is a charm and mysterious interest in 
great wealth which is indisputable. 

Evangeline was coming to Tregaron to visit Alex. The 
house was full of American officers, as the convalescent home 
was in working order. 

It was a very pale Evangeline and a very frail one whom 
Alex met at the station with her fine motor, which was, of 
course, allowed to do station work, as well as give fresh air to 
the convalescents. 

As Alex waited for her on the platform, she thought of her 
own arrival at Tregaron, when Hebe was her hostess — a poor 
wreck of a woman. She remembered how Evangeline, with 
her glowing vitality, and the perfectly-dressed Hebe had made 
her feel very plain and shabby. How envious she had been of 
their health, spirits and untroubled lives. 

She knew of the tragedy of Allan’s death, and what had 
caused Evangeline’s long illness. She knew, and she was 
thankful, thankful that the poor fellow who was so terribly dis- 
figured had died a splendid death. “It was the only way,” she 
had said to Evangeline in her letter, “the only and the best of 
all ways.” 

Larry had not lost touch with Hugh, so Alex was able to 
communicate with him. Indeed, she had written to him only 
a few days ago, a letter which, as soon as it was posted, had 
caused her anxiety and misgiving. She thought of the letter 
as she put her arm through Evangeline’s. “You are almost as 
thin as I was, you poor dear, when I arrived at Tregaron that 
summer. We must nurse you up and spoil you.” 

“What centuries ago!” Evangeline said. “And yet we are 
still alive! We must be hundreds of years old, Alex!” 

“Yes, it seems like centuries, doesn’t it?” Alex pressed the 
girl’s arm affectionately. “But did we ever live before the war? 


WITH OTHER EYES 


373 


I often ask myself the question. Life seems to date from 
1914. Our affairs were so trivial long ago — we made so much 
of little things.” 

As yet they could not speak more definitely about intimate 
matters; they were almost as conventional as mere acquaint- 
ances in their anxiety to hide their emotion from each other. 

When they arrived at the house, Larry and Hebe met them. 
Then there was so much to say generally, when they all got to- 
gether, so much to say and to hear, that it seemed as if they 
could go on talking for days and weeks and never come to the 
end of war-talk and future possibilities. 

Alex was very proud of Tregaron as a convalescent home, 
and Evangeline thought that Larry seemed very proud of Alex 
as the lady-bountiful. It was as if he had once been married 
to a winsome, innocent girl, who had failed to retain her charm 
for him, and that he was married again to a fascinating woman 
of the world, whose fortune sat very becomingly upon her and 
lent her a very pretty dignity. The restoration which Franklin 
had so longed to see in the exhausted wife was artistically 
complete. 

Both Alex and Larry had a conspiracy up their sleeves which 
they had arranged very carefully. It was a daring conspiracy, 
and as the day for the plot to be hatched drew nearer, Alex 
could not help feeling a little anxious, she almost wished that 
she had left well alone. 

It was on the fourth day after Evangeline’s arrival that Alex 
told her that if the afternoon was fine, she was going to motor 
to St. David’s. Two officers were well enough to benefit by 
the drive, but there would be a seat for Evangeline if she cared 
to go. 

“In fact, you must come, Eve, dear,” she said. “They will 
enjoy the outing twice as much if you will. You are still the 
old honey-pot — I can see that.” 

Already Evangeline was looking much stronger than when 
she arrived. 

Not too willingly she agreed to go to St. David’s; she knew 
that it would revive things that had lain dormant in her mind 
and heart since Allan’s death. During her illness and con- 
valescence, she had not heard one word from Hugh. She did 
yiot even know if he knew of Allan’s death. Out of loyalty 


374 


WITH OTHER EYES 


to Allan’s memory she had not allowed herself to think in- 
timately of her love for Hugh. She looked upon herself as 
Allan’s widow. 

This going to St. David’s had for her some premonition, she 
did not know what. Except that the place must always mean to 
her her first meeting with Hugh. She felt a tender fear of the 
place; going to it might break in upon the calm into which she 
had settled. 

It might be extremently foolish and end in nothing at all, as 
her premonitions often did, yet she could not rid herself of 
the idea that she would not go to St. David’s and return to 
Tregaron and feel as she felt now. There was to be something 
decisive about the excursion; in what manner she could not 
even guess. Perhaps they were all to be killed, or a tragedy 
might happen to some of the Americans. It might be anything. 
All she knew was that the moment Alex had suggested the drive 
and had insisted upon her going, she had felt nervous and ap- 
prehensive. 

Yet go she must, if it was only to see St. David’s tomb and 
stand by the spot where her wreath of forget-me-nots had been 
watered by Hugh’s hands. 

As the morning passed she looked many times anxiously at 
the weather. If it was not a fine afternoon the convalescents 
would not be allowed to go, and without the officers they could 
not use the car. It was a big, roomy car. Alex and Hebe and 
Evangeline were to sit on one side ; the two invalids, with Tony 
between them, on the seat facing the driver. Larry was to sit 
beside the chauffeur. 

The morning had been cloudy and threatening, but by mid- 
day the skies cleared and the sun came out. At the hour of 
starting Tregaron looked its best, “a very beautiful best,” Hebe 
said, while she waved her handkerchief to the invalids who 
were left behind. 


CHAPTER XXI 


On their arrival at St. David’s, the party from Tregaron Manor 
looked down upon the great cathedral and upon the ruined 
bishop’s palace lying in the meadows below, just as they had 
done four years ago, from the highest point of the village-city 
in little England beyond Wales. 

To Evangeline there was something unreal and ghostly about 
it all. To her everything had the intense clearness of a dream. 
The calm which surrounded the cathedral, the very strength of 
its square tower, belonged to her days of dreams, to the days 
of long ago, when war had not ravished the world and changed 
almost every familiar feature. This little town, with its big 
cathedral down in the green meadows, was like one of the many 
beautiful things which we must look back upon, pre-war things 
which now seemed infinitely tender and precious in Evangeline’s 
eyes. There still clung to St. David’s that peace of God which 
to-day truly passeth all understanding. 

On this visit Alex was the wealthy hostess of the party ; Hebe 
McArthur was her guest, as was Evangeline herself. The 
wounded officers belonged to the world which dates from the 
war; what they had been before the war did not seem to matter. 

Franklin Gibson, who had formed such a distinctive feature 
in their first visit to the old world city, was wiped out. He had 
passed away with all the other passing tragedies of the war. He 
had taken his place with the great dead, for whom the living 
have scarcely time to mourn. “He shall return no more to his 
house, neither shall his place know him any more.” How true 
were the words of Job. 

Evangeline looked at the blue and white sky, and as she 
looked she said to herself, “As the cloud is consumed and van- 
ished away, so he that goeth down to the grave shall come up 
no more.” 

She had taken Hugh’s advice when he said, “You should 
read the Bible — you will find it extraordinarily interesting and 

375 


376 


WITH OTHER EYES 

amazingly modern.” ’ As a war book it has no equal. She read 
it continually, some chapters seemed to her like a vividly written 
war diary. 

Was Alex, she wondered, as oblivious of all the changes as 
she appeared to be, as oblivious of the sacrifice of youth which 
was this moment going on on a hundred battlefields, as the Nor- 
man tower and the stately minster. 

Alex was so completely the charming hostess and the happy 
wife and mother. It seemed to Evangeline just a little hard, 
just a trifle forgetful, for, after all, Franklin Gibson had died 
that she might live this newer and fuller life. Had she not one 
thought for him? Was she so immersed in her new life, with 
its wealthy importance and novelty, that the dead giver of it 
was forgotten? 

While the party were discussing the view Evangeline had 
been standing aloof, lost in these thoughts. They poured in 
upon her, hitting her and buffeting her like the waves of a 
strong sea. 

If only she did not think so much, or see so vividly ! If only 
her sensibilities were less keen, if something would happen to 
deaden her pain and misery! If only the scene she was looking 
at was less unchanged, if only she was less conscious of her 
consciousness ! If only she could feel indifferent to the blueness 
of the sky, the clearness of the air, to the village-city sounds, 
to the strong grey tower soaring up from the greenness below! 
They were all an actual part of her spiritual sensations. Why, 
oh, why was her whole world an agony, the world which she 
had once so loved and held out her young arms to embrace? 
— the world in which she had never done anything which she 
had not wanted to do? 

“Dreaming, Evangeline?” Alex asked, as she put an affec- 
tionate hand on the girl’s arm. 

Evangeline was silent. When Alex spoke again, her voice 
had lost its gaiety. 

“St. David’s is almost too much, isn’t it? I was wrong to 
come, perhaps? I hope not.” 

At the sound of her troubled voice, Evangeline’s weight of 
depression lifted; already she felt less lonely. Alex’s eyes and 
voice told her how mistaken she had been. Alex was simply 
more a woman of the world than she was herself, had more self- 


WITH OTHER EYES 377 

control. An inrush of sympathy nerved and warmed her. Her 
eyes looked ashamed, guilty. 

“I was wondering if you remembered, if you felt all the 
unchangedness of the place,” her eyes indicated their surround- 
ings. “Oh, the awful changedness of everything in me, Alex.” 

“My throat feels so full, it is bursting,” Alex said. “There 
is something in it I can’t swallow back.” She shook herself. 
“But we mustn’t give way — we are here for these poor fellows; 
they want to enjoy themselves. Don’t let’s think of our own 
griefs.” 

She looked doubtfully at Evangeline. Had she done wisely? 
Was her well-arranged plan going to prove too much for the 
girl? Could she bring it off? What if it were to fail? 

“I know,” Evangeline said. “I’ll buck up. I feel different 
already, I really do. You’re a brick, Alex — please forgive me — 
I thought perhaps you were too happy to remember.” 

Their eyes met, then they parted. Their little conversation 
had not lasted three minutes. After Alex had spoken to Tony, 
who was waiting for her, he ran up to Evangeline and begged 
her to go with him down to the cathedral, before the others 
could get there. 

“Let’s go by ourselves, Auntie Evangeline, quickly.” 

“Do you remember the place, Tony?” 

“Of course, I do. Not all of it, but I remember helping 
you to make a forget-me-not wreath. And oh, Auntie Evan- 
geline, do you remember the lovely vision? Do you remember 
— we put a tuft of grass on the steps and stood on it and I saw 
the Child Jesus? But do be quick — hurry up, and let’s get 
there first!” 

Tony was carrying out his mother’s instructions; he was not 
to be led astray. He was to take Exangeline straight down to 
the cathedral as fast as ever he could. He had promised faith- 
fully to make her go there. 

Evangeline wondered why he was so impatient. He was 
running and dragging her by the hand. He had his little part 
to play in the day’s drama. He felt important, and looked 
mysterious. 

“Count the steps for luck,” Evangeline cried, as they began 
to descend the flight of steps which led them through the church- 
yard to the cathedral. Tony counted them as they put their 


378 


WITH OTHER EYES 


foot on each step. “Shall we lay a clump of grass on one of 
them, Tony, and look for the Islands of the Blessed? I 
wonder if we should see them? Would you like to try?” 

“No, not just now. Let’s come on and hide in the ruined 
part of the cathedral — we can look for the vision afterwards.” 

The building was in full view now, glorious and many-toned 
in the bright sunlight, a peaceful sanctuary in a world of sacri- 
lege and destruction. As Evangeline looked at it, she thought 
for our Allies in France and Flanders, who had seen such ex- 
quisite buildings battered and shattered with shell and bombs, 
buildings like St. David’s were probably being destroyed at that 
very moment. 

“They haven’t started yet,” Tony said. “We shall be in 
plenty of time, if you hurry, Auntie Evangeline.” His thoughts 
had not flown to devastated Flanders. 

When they reached the great west door, he refused to linger. 
He firmly declined to allow Evangeline to glance at the carvings. 
He was impatient of the least delay; he wanted to get through 
with what he had to do. 

To Evangeline the building and its surroundings brought 
back with a painful intensity her first meeting with Hugh. How 
little it had meant to her at the time — a short flirtation to pass 
the time of day, and nothing more. She remembered how she 
had longed to exchange Hugh’s company for Allan’s. That was 
the greatest of all the many changes which had happened to 
her world. She had been casually attracted to Hugh because 
of his good looks and sympathetic personality, but so casually 
that Hebe’s remark that she had been “a naghty gurl” had only 
made her laugh. Now, the very tones which age has given to 
the grey stone of the cathedral reminded her of how he had 
called her attention to their beauty. 

“You can find in them,” he had said, “pinks, and purples 
and pale lavender, like the blues and pinks and lavenders in 
your wreath of forget-me-nots.” 

She remembered with an absurd sharpness almost everything 
he had said to her. Why had it all printed itself so indelibly 
on her mind when it had meant so little to her at the time? 
Her affections had been faithful to Allan then; they had been 
all for him. And now? . . . poor Allan! 


WITH OTHER EYES 379 

Tony’s hand was pulling insistently at her arm. She felt 
the heat of it through the sleeve of her muslin dress. 

“Come on, Auntie, let’s go to the ruined part.” He was 
looking round the building anxiously as he spoke. “We’ve 
got it all to ourselves.” 

After they had been in the cathedral a few moments, much 
to her surprise he called softly, “Hallo! Hallo! Are you 
there?” 

“What’s the matter?” Evangeline said. Tony generally be- 
haved with great solemnity in a sacred building — though they 
were, it is true, standing in the ruined portion of the building. 

“Oh, nothing; — I want the man to show us round. Here he 
comes — it’s all right.” His air of authority amused Evange- 
line; the child was certainly her host; he was conducting her — 
she was not looking after him. 

She looked up the long aisle, expecting to see the verger or 
the guardian of the building. A khaki figure was coming 
towards them: it limped a little. There was something about 
the movements of the figure which unnerved her; why did the 
man’s limp send a sudden thrill through her? 

As he drew nearer, Tony grew more excited. To keep her 
from looking at the quickly advancing figure, he asked her fool- 
ish questions about the most obvious things. 

Evangeline scarcely heeded him. She was nervously descry- 
ing the truth. Suddenly she stopped. Tony felt her tense emo- 
tion; she was going to make a hasty retreat from the building 
when he caught hold of her and prevented her. 

“Come on, Auntie Evangeline, you must speak to him — this 
is mummie’s great surprise.” 

The next moment she was face to face with Hugh Tennant. 
There was no means of escape. The end had come. 

****** 

When Hugh was close enough to the excited Tony and to the 
nervously-happy Evangeline, he held out his two hands for Love 
to grasp. 

Tony looked from one to the other, and as he looked a broad 
smile rippled over his face. There was no need to ask why 
they were standing gazing into each other’s eyes. 

With her hands held hungrily in his own, Hugh managed to 


380 


WITH OTHER EYES 


say, in a very broken voice, “Thank God you have come ! Thank 
God you have come!” 

To all who have been loved, and to those who still love, 
Hugh’s words will be sufficient. Tony, seeing that he was quite 
forgotten, turned on his heel and fled. He had done all that 
his mother had told him to do and now he was off. 

“So long, Auntie,” he said. “Mummie told me to leave you.” 

They both smiled; the boy’s honesty was amusing But his 
absence caused a slight embarrassment. 

“Why are you here?” Evangeline asked. She knew that it 
did not matter in the least what Hugh said, what his excuse 
would be. She merely asked the question for the sake of saying 
something. 

“I came to meet you,” he said, “to claim you.” 

“But how did you know I was coming?” His delightful as- 
surance of her surrender made her whole being radiant. 

“Lady Hemingway wrote to me. She arranged everything.” 
His eyes scolded her. “She knew that anyone as wild as my 
sweetheart had to be captured by strategy; she captured for the 
poor lame soldier the wild falcon who was beyond his reach.” 

For one moment, Evangeline’s old independence asserted 
itself; her eyes tried to look proudly disdainful. They failed 
lamentably. It was too late for subterfuge; she had shown her 
hand. He was her man, her dear war-maimed man. The war 
and Alex had given him to her. 

“Come to St. David’s tomb,” he said abruptly. He spoke in 
the old authoritative voice, the voice which she loved to obey. 

She followed him, walking very softly, for the place was in- 
deed holy ground. And as she followed his limping footsteps, 
the old restful feeling of being compelled, of being ruled and 
ordered and scolded by him held her in a dream. 

When they stopped at the worn tomb of green stone, Hugh 
put his two hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. 
Without one spoken word he clasped her in his arms. Her eyes 
had given him the right; they had shown him the way. 

***** * 

He was holding her as she loved to be held; he was kissing 
her blue eyes and lips and hair as she loved them to be kissed. 
In such a way had Sir Launcelot kissed his Queen. 

Such a sweet wonder filled her that she fancied that the organ 


WITH OTHER EYES 


381 


was pealing out the wonderful words which Hugh was only 
whispering. It was filling the Cathedral with the promise of 
the things untold. 

* * * * * * 

But voices could be heard. They were approaching; draw- 
ing nearer every moment. The lovers had to descend to earth; 
they must, after so brief a meeting, become mere models. 
Quickly they must put away lovers’ words and lovers’ glances 
and greet the sightseers as unconcernedly as possible. Hugh 
found time, as a lover always does, for just one more kiss, and 
for the pressing of dear hands to his lips. Their soft palms 
were a loving-cup; he drank of its wine. 

When they faced the party, Alex was prepared to put them at 
their ease. 

“So you did find Mr. Tennant, Evangeline? You managed 
to come?” She looked at Hugh, mischief and impudence were 
lighting up her sympathetic face. “I am so very glad you 
could come. How well you are walking.” 

Hugh knew what her words were meant to convey. His eyes 
answered her question; they told her that all was well. 

“Yes,” Evangeline said, “Mr. Tennant was waiting for us 
in the Cathedral.” Pride made her blush as she said “Mr. Ten- 
nant.” He was Hugh to her; to the others he was only Mr. 
Tennant. 

Alex introduced Hugh to the Americans. 

“We arranged to meet Mr. Tennant here,” she said. “He is 
spending his sick leave in St. David’s.” 

She turned to Hugh. “You are returning with us to Trega- 
ron — I hope you have arranged that?” 

Again their eyes spoke to each other, knowingly, happily. 

“Yes,. I have arranged everything quite satisfactorily. I can 
come if you can take me.” 

“Oh,” she said, “I am so pleased — we can easily all squeeze 
in somehow” — she referred to the car — “and now we must ‘do’ 
the Cathedral; that is our supposed reason for being here,” she 
laughed. As she passed the * nervous Evangeline, her firm 
fingers closed over the girl’s slim hand. 

“My dear, my dear,” she said softly, “I am so delighted, so 
awfully delighted and happy.” 


382 


WITH OTHER EYES 


Evangeline’s eyes smiled their thanks and gratitude in their 
own blue and beautiful way. 

As Alex withdrew her hand she said, “Don’t forget that it 
was Tony who rang the curtain up — it was he who took you to 
Hugh.” 

As she turned away, she said to herself, “It was Franklin 
who has made it all possible — it was Franklin who gave me 
back Larry.” 


FINIS 

































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